Glass Magic
by XME
Summary: Seventh-year Harry Potter longs for normality, but broken spells, wild magic and a hidden past push him firmly in the opposite direction. Who- or what- is he? SLASH. POST-DH. Not epilogue compliant. Kingsley/Harry.
1. Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE: A Picture, a Train, New Rules and the Sorting

10:41 AM, September 1, 1998

In the picture:

_The boy sits lightly on the edge of the bed, as if he will take off running at the slightest threatening movement. The room is dim, and his face is covered in the dappled shadows created by the lacy curtain over the window. His dusky brown skin and the wiry muscles on his chest and arms look incongruous against the pale, floral-print bedspread, the white walls and the delicate, white furniture._

_His gigantic, tan trousers, which are tied on with a piece of twine for a belt, are so large on his tiny frame that it seems unlikely that he can even walk without tripping. He wears no other clothing._

_He warily watches the one before him out of wide, slightly slanted eyes, with his unnaturally green irises half hidden by feminine lashes. There's a dark, pink line on his forehead in the shape of a lightening bolt. His hair is black, wild and slightly too long, and gives him the look of a gypsy when matched with his deeply tanned skin. All in all, the child has a wild and fey manner that doesn't suit the regularity of his surroundings._

The girl looks up from the picture to stare at the boy before her, who also has a lightening-bolt scar, and then looks back to the picture of the strange child, then up at the boy, then back to the picture, and, finally, up at the boy. She shakes her head, frustrated. "I know what you said, Harry, and this boy has your hair and scar, and his eyes are the right color, but this can't possibly be a picture of you."

Harry grins. "I was six, Hermione. I'd like to think that I've grown a bit since then." He is leaning carelessly against the brick wall of a train station, his hands tucked into the pockets of his overly large jeans. He takes one hand out to push up his glasses, which have begun slipping because of his sweat, and to push his damp hair out of his eyes. He is sweating harder than Hermione, but that is probably because his huge T-shirt hangs to his elbows, and his "knee-length" shorts almost reach his ankles. His smile turns wry as he adds, "'course, that may be only wishful thinking. I'm pretty sure some of the first years are taller than me."

"That's not what I meant," Hermione snaps huffily. Her clothing, light and practical, is better suited to the heat than Harry's is, and her hair is tied back from her face with a brick-red kerchief. As a result, she is much more energetic and comfortable than Harry. "Your skin is so pale (and don't say it's just because you haven't spent enough time outdoors, you're always pale and you've been outside all summer anyway, and there's no way even I could ever get that tan naturally, so it must be a racial or genetic-based coloring) and your eyes-" She pauses, and frowns. "It may just be your glasses. Take them off."

Harry rolls his eyes and sighs, but does as told.

Hermione grins, victorious. "And your eyes are a different shape than in the picture. Your eyes are rounder, more like Ron's and mine. Those are more slanted, not really Asian but somewhere in-between." Her smile drops away, and she gives Harry a stern look. "Explain. You promised to finally give me a picture of you when you were little-"

"And I have," Harry interrupts patiently. "I looked different when I was little, that's all. People change." He holds out his hand for his glasses. When Hermione gives them back, he grimaces and sticks them in his pocket. "Not worth it to put my glasses back on when they keep slipping," he explains. "I'm sick of pushing them back up."

Hermione frowns, but doesn't push the issue of the picture. She knows when Harry won't say any more. Instead, she turns to look around the station. "I wonder where the Weasleys are. If they don't show up soon, they'll miss the train."

Harry laughs. "Nah, they'll get here at the last possible moment, like always."

"And with the most possible noise and chaos, too," Hermione replies wryly (and truthfully). "Do you mind if we get on the train now, so that we miss the Weasley circus?" She wants to say, '-so that you don't broil to death in your cousin's gigantic clothing just because your family is too cheap to give you clothing that fits and you're too proud to admit you're uncomfortable?' She doesn't, because Harry will faint of heat sickness before he'll knowingly accept help.

"Sure," Harry says casually, although she can see the relief in his eyes. "At least it'll be cooler in there."

It is cooler on the train, so much cooler that Hermione shivers, but Harry sighs in relief as the cool air touches his skin. They drag their trunks down the dim corridor and into the first empty compartment they find. Hermione drops into a seat with a relieved sigh while Harry puts their trunks on the luggage rack. "Lazy girl," he teases, sitting in the seat across from her and putting on his glasses.

They talk about the heat, and the Weasleys, and (because Hermione is Hermione, even after the war) their homework.

The door opens at five minutes to eleven, and a familiar face looks in at them. "Hi, guys," says Neville, stepping into the compartment. "Mind if I sit here?" Neville's brown hair has been cut neatly; and the bruises, cuts and burns he had had the last time he saw them have faded; but he is still thinner and more muscular than he had ever been as a child; and there is a battle-hardened strength in his eyes which wasn't there before the war. He is also, Harry notes with a touch of envy, about six feet tall.

"Neville!" Hermione exclaims happily, "I didn't know you were coming for the eighth year!" Neville looks confused, and Hermione adds, "That's what the Weasleys and a lot of other people are calling last year's seventh years who decided to repeat their final year, and the seventh years who never got to do seventh year because they had to go into hiding: the eighth years. The Twin came up with it- oh, he asked us to call him that because-"

Harry grins at Neville. "Hi, Neville," he says, interrupting Hermione before she can get properly started. "It's good to see you again."

"You, too, Harry. Did you have a good summer?" Neville asks quietly, shutting the door gently behind him. He smiles back at Harry.

Hermione huffs and crosses her arms. "Fine, don't listen, then," she mutters. She doesn't have time to get into a proper sulk, however, because someone outside of the train yells. Something bangs, something pops, and something explodes. Hermione and Harry go very still, but Neville jumps to the window at the first loud noise. A blink afterwards, Harry follows.

He chuckles, and Hermione relaxes. "You were right, Hermione," Harry says. "The Weasleys have arrived with noise and chaos at three to eleven."

Hermione comes to the window, and Neville moves aside so she can look out. "Oh, for Merlin's sake," she says, sounding rather like Professor McGonagall. "Couldn't they manage to arrive quietly, for once?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Professor Sprout meets them in the entrance hall. She is a short, round witch with a cheerful smile and flyaway gray hair. She usually wears muddy, patched robes, but tonight she is wearing faded black robes with yellow trim. She says, "Please listen, everyone. We have some new rules and security measures to go over." She waits for patiently the students to quiet down.

Loudly, someone says, over the noise of the crowd, "Security measures against _them_, I hope."

The eyes of the students turn to Malfoy, Parkinson, Nott, and the few other returning Slytherins who had believed in (or pretended to believe in) Voldemort's cause. The Ministry has pardoned all of Voldemort's followers below the age of twenty, because "these children- yes, children- are merely victims of this war, as much as any of us, misled by the ones who were supposed to protect them" (as one popular defender had said). Many of them, surprisingly, have chosen to return for or repeat their final year.

The professor shakes her head firmly. "No, no, no. I most certainly do _not_ mean the children who were on the wrong side. They are here for the same reasons you are, and have just as much right to safety. There will be no fighting within these walls, no matter who starts it; and most of these precautions are to prevent attacks that start outside of Hogwarts. Now, quiet down, please, or you will end up without information that you very much need."

She unrolls a parchment scroll and begins to read. "We, the Professor, Headmaster and Governors of Hogwarts, hereby declare that henceforth- oh, for goodness' sake, this is ridiculous. The first new rule is that no dark items or weapons of any kind will be allowed in this school, except for wands, of course. That means some of the more dangerous from Zonko's and Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, too." She waits until the students have stopped shouting and complaining. "Yes, I know, but too many children have been hurt here over the past few years. I know the rules are a bit strict, but it really is necessary.

"Hmmm, let's see... we have never allowed magic in the corridors... yes, yes, you don't need to go on about it for hours..." She pauses to scowl at the parchment, and then looks up at the children apologetically. "Give me a moment to translate this out of politician-speak, please. Let's see... Alright, here we are. Some of you seem to have forgotten about the rule against magic in the corridors, so this rule will now be more stringently enforced- sorry, dears, I mean the punishment is worse. Using magic in the corridors will gain you detentions twice a week for a month, and lose your house twenty-five points.

"Using malicious- that means bad or nasty- magic anywhere, including pranks and minor jinxes, will double that punishment. This does not include times when you need to use offensive and defensive magic during class, like in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Also, so that you won't fall behind in Defense, the headmaster has arranged for a professor to supervise the Defense classroom every night after dinner. You may go there to practice your attack spells.

"Let's see... My goodness, this is long... Oh, is that all it says, in all those words? We no longer allow any form of concealment charm or potion to be used on students. Nor do we allow dark magic, influence spells, or transport spells to be used on a student. In addition, you may not use these spells on yourself, although several common beauty spells will be allowed for self-use in the future. There is a more thorough list of spells in each of your common rooms." She closes the parchment with a snap and looks up at them. "I know all the rest of it by memory, so we won't bother with that horrible scroll. Honestly, I can't make heads or tails of half of it.

"So, to finish up: These rules will be enforced in several ways. First, as we speak, the house-elves are checking your belongings for malicious magic. On entering the school in the future, all magical objects must be given to house-elves, who will be stationed in the entrance hall for just that purpose. They will check them for malicious magic and put them in your rooms. They will not be harmed unless they are in violation of the rules, in which case they will be confiscated. Any questions or protests about confiscated objects may be directed to the headmaster.

"Second, you will be checked for spells every time you enter Hogwarts. This is painless and has no negative side effects. Several Aurors have been supplied to Hogwarts by the minister, and they will perform these spells before you leave the Great Hall this evening. The spells they use to detect magic are very sensitive, so please tell the Auror who examines you if there are any spells on you or on any objects you carry with you.

"I'm sorry if any of you feel that the new rules are a violation of your privacy, or in any way frustrating. Unfortunately, these are dark times, and we must take all possible precautions. The school governors and the minister have unanimously agreed to the new safety precautions." She takes a deep breath, and rubs the bridge of her nose like she has a headache. "Honestly, we could have gone over all of that in half the time... Thank you for your patience; you go into the Great Hall now."

Everyone tramps into the Great Hall. At the back of the room, by the windows, someone has erected a rectangular table, about the size of a normal dinner table; it looks tiny next to the House tables. The four seats at the little table- all of which are occupied- face the High Table at the other end of the room. Harry supposes that these four men are the Aurors, and is surprised but pleased to see Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was Temporary Minister until a few weeks ago, sitting with them. Kingsley grins and waves surreptitiously at Harry, who smiles back as he heads for the Gryffindor table.

Professor McGonagall is standing at the front of the hall by the Sorting Hat. Her hair is a little greyer, and her face a little more lined, but she looks as stern and commanding as she always does. A line of pale and nervous first years stand by her.

There are three new teachers and a new headmaster at the head table. One of the teachers is young, maybe in his mid twenties, and he wears round glasses like Harry's. He is sneering at something that Hagrid is saying to him, and Harry wonders if he knows that Voldemort died a few feet from where he is sitting. The other new teacher is an elderly woman with short, curly white hair and a kind smile. She is talking to the new Headmaster, who is a tall, scowling old man with a long, sharp face and long grey hair. The final new teacher looks about the same age as McGonagall. She has graying hair and eyes so blue that Harry can see them clearly from across the room.

The Headmaster stands, glowering at them. He speaks slowly and clearly, snapping out each syllable as if he is cutting the words into pieces. "My name is Herman Nigellus, and I am your new Headmaster. Your new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor is- please stand, Professor Sweet- Marianne Sweet, who is also the new Slytherin Head of House." The old woman with the white hair stands. "Your Potions professor is Zachariah Snubuckle, who was a Ravenclaw." The young man stands.

"Finally, Sophia Alyssum, previously a Hufflepuff, will teach the re-instated Theory of Magic class." Without waiting for the students to clap, he gestures for the new teachers to sit back down. "Theory of Magic was removed from the syllabus in 1938 by Headmaster Armando Dippet, who was afraid that too much theoretical knowledge would cause students to turn Dark. Headmaster Dippet was an idiot, and the class has now been returned to the graduation requirements. All students must take at least one year of Magical Theory."

"Professor Sprout has told you the new rules, but don't forget the old ones. Rulebooks are now to be found in each common room. They are very short, so even those of you with limited reading skills are expected to read them and know the rules. More complete versions are available in the library for the curious." He sneers the last word as if it's an insult. It is the first emotion he has shown besides his scowl.

"I am now going to make many of you very angry with me." He smiles slightly, as if amused. "There is a rule in the original Hogwarts Charter that says all new students must be Sorted by the Hat on the first day of their first year after enrolling in school. Many of you left school last year. Despite the extenuating circumstances, you were no longer considered students, and had to re-enroll this year as new students.

"Therefore, all... Eighth years, is it? All eighth years must be re-Sorted." His smile broadens as the Hall erupts into cries of protest and dismay. "Yes, I thought you would feel that way. You may still choose to leave, if the new rules and the Sorting disturb you. Your money- or, more likely, your parents' money- will be refunded. This offer only lasts until the Sorting begins." He waits, and raises an eyebrow as no one leaves. "No one? Unexpected."

"We may then begin the Sorting. Hat?" He sits back down amid complete and utter silence- or, at least, as complete and utter silence as a room full of hundreds of children can ever achieve.

The Sorting Hat doesn't sing, and it doesn't rhyme. It says:

"_War is a time of trials and of truths. When you fight for your life, for your friends, for your family, for your honor, or for your beliefs, you learn what is important. _

"_To fair Ravenclaw, teacher of the curious, her beliefs were more important than even her dearest friend._

"_To fey Slytherin, teacher of the cunning, his make-shift family was more important than his own happiness._

"_To sweet Hufflepuff, teacher of the loyal, her promises were more important than the man who was like her brother._

"_To brave Gryffindor, teacher of the courageous, his honor was more important than his family. _

"_Be you brave, follow Gryffindor; be you steadfast, follow Hufflepuff; be you crafty, follow Slytherin; be you knowing, follow Ravenclaw._

"_I am the Sorting Hat, and I show you your path._

"_So come and put me on. Be you a leader, a soldier, a worker or a philosopher, I will send you to your home._

"_But be wary._

"_Beware the missteps of the ones you follow, for all four gained what they sought, but all four lost what they needed."_

There is a long silence in the Hall after the Hat finishes speaking. Finally, Professor McGonagall clears her throat. "Aaron, Ernest."

The tallest first year boy walks shakily over to her. He is promptly sorted into Hufflepuff. The Hufflepuffs cheer, although they're much more subdued than they usually are.

"Abbott, Hannah." A Hufflepuff eighth year with blond hair, a red face and eyes full of tears walks slowly up and sits on the three-legged stool. Professor McGonagall sets the patched Hat on her head, and it sinks down to cover her eyes.

"HUFFLEPUFF!" the Hat cries. Hannah bursts into pleased tears, and runs back to her table while the students cheer.

Several first years are Sorted, and then Susan Bones, Hufflepuff eighth year, is called. The Hall waits impatiently while the Hat makes up its mind. Finally, the Hat yells, "GRYFFINDOR!" Susan starts to cry, and McGonagall leads her gently over to the Gryffindor table, whispering kind words in her ear. Hermione makes room for Susan, and wraps her arm around her once she sits. A second year Hufflepuff girl is crying too, presumably in sympathy for Susan.

McGonagall goes back up front. "Boot, Terry."

Terry Boot, Ravenclaw, goes up, head high, and sits. The Hat takes less time than it did with Susan. "SLYTHERIN!" it yells. He hands the Hat back to McGonagall and goes to his new seat, his face unreadable.

Quite a few more first years and several eighth years are Sorted, and then Hermione is called up.

The Hat spends a long time thinking about Hermione. "Ravenclaw," it finally says, sounding rather uncertain. Hermione hands the Hat roughly to McGonagall and stalks over to the Ravenclaw table. Harry watches her worriedly, and he is relieved when Luna moves to sit by her and manages to draw her into quiet conversation. Hermione will do well in Ravenclaw.

There are a lot more first years, but no eighth years, between Hermione and "Longbottom, Neville."

"GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat shouts the moment it touches Neville's head. Neville looks vaguely startled, but grins and runs back to the Gryffindor table—then runs back to return the Hat to McGonagall. Everyone, including a pleased Neville, laughs.

Ernie Macmillan, a snobby Hufflepuff, is sorted into Ravenclaw. Draco Malfoy goes back into Slytherin, although the Hat takes a surprisingly long time deciding. Theodore Nott goes back into Slytherin. Pansy Parkinson, to everyone's shock, goes to Gryffindor. Harry, remembering the final battle, supposes that it must have taken quite a lot of courage to suggest something for which she knew many people would hate her.

"Potter, Harry!"

Harry had somehow almost forgotten that he, too, would have to be re-Sorted, and it takes him a moment to realize that Professor McGonagall has called his name. He stands and walks slowly up to the three-legged stool, trying to seem careless and unconcerned despite the lump of coal that has settled in his stomach. Professor McGonagall drops the Sorting Hat on his head, and it falls down over his eyes.

"You again, eh?" the Hat says cheerfully. "I'd hoped to get another look at you. You're a tough one, you know." Ollivander said something like that, Harry remembers. The Hat chuckles, "He was right. You are indeed a very tricky customer. Now, let's see... Where shall I put you...?"

_Not Slytherin,_ Harry thinks, but then he remembers Snape, and he doesn't think it again. _Gryffindor, please, _he thinks. _Please put me in Gryffindor._

"No," the Hat says firmly, almost as if Harry's request has made up its mind. "I don't think I will. You're brave, yes, very brave; but you've learned all you can learn from Gryffindor. I'm going to put you somewhere that will help you. People don't have only one kind of virtue, you know, and you still have a thirst to prove yourself. One day, Mr. Potter, with the proper encouragement, you will do great things."

Harry doesn't want to do great things. He wants to be a normal wizard with a family and friends, all of whom are safe from Dark wizards and other evil things. He thinks at the Hat, _If you put me in Slytherin, I won't be great. Slytherin helps you get your ambitions, and my ambition is to be normal, not great. Also, I'm lazy and I don't like studying, so you can't put me in Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. You'll just have to put me back in Gryffindor. That's where the people who do great things are, anyway. _

The Hat starts to laugh, and the laughter seems to echo off the edges of the darkness and against the inside of Harry's head. "When the Founders used me for the first time," the Hat explains, still chuckling, "they used me on themselves, just to make sure I knew what I was doing. Salazar Slytherin was rather annoyed when I tried to put him in Ravenclaw." Harry doesn't know what any of this has to do with his Sorting. "I'm getting there, child. The point is that Slytherin tried to argue with me, although he called it reasoning with me. I didn't change my mind, of courser, but you're the first person to argue properly with me since Slytherin!" The Hat starts laughing again. "And here I put you in Gryffindor. I don't know what I was thinking. You're more like Slytherin than most of his Heirs were. No, no, that decides it. Better be- But wait."

Very quickly and quietly, while Harry is still too surprised at the sudden switch in topic to protest, the Hat added, "This is very important, Mr. Potter. Tom Riddle, Heir or not, was _not_ a true Slytherin, and _you are_. You'll do fine in his House. As for being great and terrible: you have no choice about being great, but you can always choose to be good. Remember that."

And the Hat yells, "SLYTHERIN!"

It is almost worth it when Harry takes off the Hat and realizes that nearly everyone in the Hall, including Professor McGonagall, is sitting with their mouth open. The only one making a sound is Luna Lovegood, who is clapping and cheering. He is once again reminded of why, despite all her oddities, Luna is one of his best friends.

Making his face carefully blank to prevent laughter, Harry hands the Hat to McGonagall, who takes it numbly. He walks over to the Slytherin table and sits quietly down next to Terry Boot. As if that is a signal, everyone starts talking at once. It takes Professor McGonagall three tries before anyone hears her call for "Regulus, Eleanor."

Harry is very careful not to look at Ron, Hermione and Neville for the rest of dinner.

Harry thinks that Sirius and his dad would probably approve, because anything that gets McGonagall to make a face like that is an activity worthy of a Marauder, even if it means getting Sorted into Slytherin. At least, he hopes so.

And at least Lily wouldn't care that he's in Slytherin.


	2. Chapter Two

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! As always, any suggestions are helpful. I especially appreciate it when people tell me that my characters are getting OOC and how to fix it, or if I have any grammar/spelling mistakes. Go constructive criticism!

Please note that I may be editing the first chapter and later ones as I go. I try to go over them as well as possible before posting, but I have no beta-reader, and sometimes I don't notice the little mistakes until weeks or even months after I've posted (or until a kind reader mentions them). I don't think that will make FFNet send you extra Story Alerts, but if it does then I apologize.

Amy: Yes, it is a Kingsley/Harry fic. Also, EWE is "Epilogue? What Epilogue?" In other words, the story is mostly canon post-DH, but I'm ignoring the epilogue.

That said, enjoy the chapter!

CHAPTER TWO: Slytherin, Class Discussions, Examinations and Burning

The four dark-haired boys sit at the Slytherin table, at the end closest to the High Table. Terry Boot, an average-looking young man with a sprinkling of freckles across his nose, sits next to Harry Potter, who is small and green-eyed. Across the table from Harry is Theodore Nott, who is scrawny and pale. Next to Nott sits Draco Malfoy, who is pointy-faced and has white-blond hair. Malfoy is currently Harry's worst, living, non-imprisoned enemy, other than Umbridge.

These are the Slytherin eighth years, and none of them look very happy. Terry Boot is blank-faced and silent. Harry is scowling and not talking. Malfoy is sulking and muttering under his breath about "purity of Slytherin", "sacrilege", and "mud-bloods". Theodore Nott is even paler than usual, and he keeps giving Harry worried glances. He is apparently too frightened to speak, not that he's ever talked much anyway.

Harry has stopped pretending to eat by the time anyone talks.

Terry Boot tugs the green laces at his throat a little looser, clears his throat and turns to Theodore Nott. "So... um, what do you think about the new Magical Theory class?" He asks awkwardly, stumbling over his words.

Theodore shrugs and doesn't speak. Terry looks even more awkward, and falls back into silence.

Malfoy waits a moment. When no one says anything more, he says imperiously, "My grandfather said that-"

"Didn't he die a year before you were born?" Harry interrupts, thinking of the Black Family Tapestry.

Malfoy scowls, but doesn't seem particularly surprised that Harry knows when his grandfather. Harry guesses that Malfoy assumes that everyone takes interest in the history of the Great Malfoy Family, the stuck-up prat. "Not that grandfather, you idiot, my paternal grandfather. Anyway, he told me about the class when I was younger. He said that it was a great shame that Dopey Dippet removed it. He told me that it taught all sorts of things, like about different sorts of magic, and Squibs, and why spells work the way they do, and how new spells are made, and... um, and that sort of thing. He said that without that class, we're at a real disadvantage, because we don't really understand the magic we use."

Terry gives him a weak grin, looking relieved. "I wonder why Dumbledore didn't bring it back," he mused.

Theodore snorts. "It's Dumbledore. Since when has he actually given a shit if anyone has all the information they need?"

Harry snickers, and Malfoy looks at him oddly. "Shouldn't you be defending your Perfect Professor, Golden Boy?" Malfoy asks.

Harry actually laughs at that. "Hardly. I spent most of last year trying to answer the riddles he left me. Nott's probably right; Dumbledore thinks it's good for people to figure stuff out on their own, and that meant giving them as little information as possible."

"Thought," Terry Boot corrects. Harry looks at him curiously. "You said 'Dumbledore thinks'. He's dead, so it should be 'thought'."

"Not so," Harry argues. "Just because he's dead doesn't mean he's stopped thinking."

Terry looks uncomfortable, and the table lapses back into silence, although Harry isn't entirely sure why.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

About an hour after the Sorting concludes, Headmaster Nigellus stands. "Your attention," he calls. The students slowly become silent. "Thank you. We may have to work on speed in the future, however. It is time for the first years to go to bed. If all first years and the seventh year prefects, not including the Head Boy and Girl, will go to the doors- but NOT YET-" The first years sit back down, looking confused. "-then the Aurors will begin to check you all over. Please line up by House, with one prefect at the front of the line and one at the back. Now you may go over."

He waits until they have lined up. Much pushing and chaos seems to be involved in the process. "Quiet, please!" Everyone turns to look at him again. "That was much quicker," he says approvingly, "Well done. Now, prefects, wait until all of the first years in your house have been sorted before you leave. We don't want anyone wandering off. You should know the drill for welcoming and dorm organization by now, yes?" The prefects all respond positively. "Very good. You may begin, Aurors. Thank you for being patient." He doesn't show any emotion in his face for the entirety of his instructions.

The Aurors stand in front of the doors, with one to each group. Kingsley Shacklebolt is standing by the Slytherins. The Auror with the Ravenclaws is a tall, thin man who has grey hair, although he appears to only be in his forties, which is young for a Wizard. The Gryffindor Auror is a short, muscular wizard with short brown hair. The final wizard, who stands with the Hufflepuffs, is a blond wizard with a friendly smile and a scar across his face.

The Aurors speak quietly the four prefects at the front of the line, all of whom are pale and shaky. Two of them give their Auror something out of their pockets. The Aurors do something to the objects and drop them in a wicker basket by the door. While this is going on, the Hufflepuff Auror and Shacklebolt start casting spells over their prefects. Harry concentrates on Shacklebolt.

A thread of green light comes out of Kingsley's wand and twines around the Slytherin prefect. It is the same shade of green as Avada Kedavra. A few moments later, a bright white string comes out and wraps around the prefect; it is followed by a blue one, a purple one, and finally a yellow one. Kingsley stops speaking. The threads hold still for a moment, and then slowly spread out, moving away from the prefect. Suddenly, without warning, the threads jerk back inwards and sink into the prefect, who begins to glow a grayish lavender color.

A moment later the same thing happens to the Hufflepuff prefect. A few seconds after that, the same happens to the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw prefects. The Aurors send them through the door.

"That's it?" says Malfoy, "That seems simple enough."

"Won't be for you, though," Harry says, feeling a little malicious. "You have the Mark, don't you? It might pick up on that."

Malfoy pales.

It only takes about ten minutes to check all of the first years, but by the time the other prefects are checked, the students have returned to eating and talking. The Headmaster stands. "Second years and sixth year prefects, please go to the doors so the Aurors may check you over. Line up by house, a prefect at the head and a prefect at the tail of each. Don't leave for the dorms until all of the students have been examined. You may begin."

After they have finished, he sends the third years and the sixth year prefects. Halfway through, a Ravenclaw boy turns red instead of lavender. The skinny-tall Auror sighs and shakes his head. He gestures towards the Ravenclaw table and says something quietly to the boy, who goes over and sits back down, his face tense.

The rest of the third years are examined without incident, but two fourth years turn red and are sent back to their tables. The rest of the fourth years are escorted by teachers on the way to their dorms: Hagrid for the Gryffindors; Professor Snubuckle for the Ravenclaws; Professor Alyssum for the Hufflepuffs; and the Ancient Runes professor, whose name Harry has forgotten, for the Slytherins.

Four fifth years turn red, while the rest of them are led away by the Astronomy professor, the Arithmancy professor, the Muggle Studies professor, and, oddly enough, Professor Trelawney.

By the time the sixth years are being examined, the professors who left with the fourth years are back, and they escort the sixth years to their dorms. Three sixth years turn red and return to their tables.

Five seventh years are sent back to their tables, while the rest leave with the fifth years' teachers.

Then the eighth years are called up. The first ones to go through are Zacharias Smith, Dean Thomas, Terry Boot, and Ernie Macmillan. All turn lavender and are allowed through the door.

Justin Finch-Fletchley, Pansy Parkinson, Theodore Nott, and Michael Corner go next. Parkinson and Nott turn red and are sent back to their seats. Hannah Abbott, Ron, Draco Malfoy (still white as a sheet), and Anthony Goldstein are the next to be checked, and both Malfoy and Goldstein are sent to their seats. The Hufflepuff Auror, who hasn't had any reds so far, is running ahead. He finishes checking Blaise Zabini (lavender), his last eighth year, before the next group starts.

Neville Longbottom, Harry, and Hermione are next, and the Hufflepuff Auror takes Susan Bones even though she's a Gryffindor. They are the last group.

Harry is examined by Kingsley. "Do you have any magical objects on you, maybe a be-spelled watch? They'll just be checked over by House-elves and sent to your new dorm." he asks. He sounds very, very tired. Harry pulls off his moke-skin pouch and gives it to Kingsley, who sticks a spell-o-tape tag to it, saying clearly, "Harry Potter," which is then written on the spell-o-tape. He puts it into the wicker basket and it vanishes.

Kingsley starts to chant in Latin, waving his wand in a complicated pattern. The strings come out and wrap around Harry, who shivers as the air gets much colder. They spread out, and then slide into him. It feels like walking through an ice-cold shower, or through a ghost.

Kingsley's eyes widen. "That's... unexpected." he mutters. "You're glowing, kid. You'll have to sit down."

Harry lifts up his hand just in time to see the last of the red light fading. He silently goes and sits back down at the Slytherin table with Nott, Malfoy and six younger students. His brain is working faster than it has in awhile. He didn't cast any charms on himself. Until today, he hasn't seen anyone but Hermione, Kreacher and the Weasleys since early June. He was so fed up with the press that he locked himself into Grimmauld place less than three weeks after Voldemort's defeat. None of the people he's seen since then would have charmed him without his knowledge.

That means that the spell was probably either cast between Voldemort's defeat and the summer, meaning that it's probably not something that will kill him in the next few minutes, or it was cast since he Apparated to King's Cross this morning, in which case he's in trouble.

Malfoy, who he is now sitting across from, grins. "At least," he says nastily, "I know what my spell is. Do you, Potter?"

Harry thinks that he should probably answer that, but he's too tired to bother. Between the feast, the Sorting and the examinations, it's been more than three hours since he arrived, and before that he was up since dawn and on the train since eleven. He rests his head on the table. First he was Sorted into Slytherin, and now this. Hermione and Ron will never speak to him again, even if he survives whatever spell has been cast on him.

"Potter," says Nott, sounding uncertain, "you do know what spell it is, don't you?"

"No idea," Harry says, not lifting his head. "With my luck, someone's cast something fatal and incurable on me. You've just got the Dark Mark, Nott, right?"

Nott doesn't reply, and Harry looks up at him. Nott looks startled and terrified. "How did you...?" he whispers.

Harry doesn't know why Nott looks so afraid. "There's a Nott in the inner circle, and you glowed red. It seemed like a reasonable guess." He says tiredly, and drops his head back down.

The Head Boy and Girl have led the eighth years to their new dorms, which are separate from the regular House dormitories. The only people left in the Hall are the four Heads of House, the Headmaster, the Aurors and the reds. "Alright," the Headmaster says, his voice cold. "Raise your hand if you have the Dark Mark. Don't worry; you won't be punished for it in any way."

Malfoy raises his hand immediately, and Not follows. Harry, now sitting upright, discovers that almost all of the twenty students have raised their hands. He sighs. What did Voldemort want with fourth years? Although, on second thought, Harry was fighting dragons and Death Eaters when he was a fourth year, so fourth years weren't _so_ young.

"Will all carriers of the Dark Mark please line up by the door? The Aurors have a different examination spell that they can use on you." The new spell looks the same, but takes longer. It's almost half an hour before the sixteen students- Harry counts- are examined. Only two of them glow red and are sent back to their tables. The first four teachers have returned, and they lead the ex-Death Eaters away, looking tired.

That leaves six students. Harry only knows Pansy Parkinson, who has a Dark Mark but glowed red both times. The third year Ravenclaw boy, the first to glow red, is still there, and he doesn't have a Dark Mark. There are also two seventh years and a fifth year.

The Headmaster say, "Did anyone forget about a bewitched object?" He waits, but no one raises their hand. "I did that once, on the way to a meeting with the minister. I had to stay for five hours while they looked for dangerous spells. Finally I remembered that my robes were charmed to repel water. That was very embarrassing."

One of the seventh years and the fifth year raise their hands. They go over to the Aurors, give them the objects, and are re-examined. They turn lavender, and are told to wait by the door.

"Does anyone know the spell they have on them? Once my sister forgot that she had a beauty charm on when she went to visit her husband in a ministry holding cell. Need I say that it was long and embarrassing? Come on, now, own up."

The seventh year Hufflepuff and Pansy Parkinson raise their hands. They go to the Aurors and remove the spells. The Hufflepuff has pimples, and Parkinson has a huge wart on her nose. They are examined and told to wait by the door.

"That leaves two. Pomona and Minerva," he says to Professor Sprout and Professor McGonagall, "Will you return these four to their rooms? You may go to bed after that, if you wish."

Now there are nine people in the room, and only two are students. The Headmaster comes down to stand in the middle of the room, and he waves everyone over to him. "Do either of you know what spell is on you?" he asks the boys.

Both Harry and the third year shake their heads, but the third year hesitates before he does, and Headmaster Nigellus looks sternly at the boy. "I'm afraid I don't know your name?"

"I'm Jon," the boy mumbles, "Jon Fields." His cheeks are red, but the rest of his face is pale.

"Mr. Fields, then; do you know what spell is on you? Answer yes or no."

"I don't- I don't know what," Jon says. The Headmaster continues to watch him, and Jon finally turns his eyes to the floor and whispers, "My mum cast something on me before I came. She wouldn't tell me what it was."

The headmaster nods. "Good boy. Do you know where on you the spell was placed?"

The boy taps the center of his chest, refusing to look at the headmaster. The headmaster nods. "Thank you. Aurors Trenton and Smith, will you try to discover what spell is on him?" The three go a little distance away with Flitwick darting around them worriedly, and the Aurors begin casting more spells on the boy. Jon's chest is glowing faintly pink when Harry turns away.

"Now, as for you. What is your name, young man?" he says to Harry.

Harry is at first surprised that the man doesn't know his name, but it's been awhile since his photo was in the paper. It isn't really so strange, after all, that Harry would have changed. "I'm Harry," he says.

The Headmaster waits for a moment, and then sighs long-sufferingly. "Both names, boy, both names."

Harry looks away and doesn't answer. He hates the look in people's eyes when they first learn who he is.

"Child, I am running out of patience."

"He's Harry Potter," Kingsley says. Harry jerks his head around to glare at Kingsley, who shrugs. "He'd have found out eventually, kid."

Harry ducked his head back down and didn't meet anyone's eyes, his cheeks burning. He knew that Headmaster Nigellus and Professor Sweet would have learned his name eventually, because they are the headmaster and his new Head of House, but... "But the other Aurors wouldn't have," he grumbles sulkily.

"Mr. Potter," the Headmaster says sharply, and Harry hopes it's sharp to get his attention and not out of annoyance. It turns out that it's the former, because Headmaster Nigellus' next words are gentler. "Do you know what spell is on you?"

Harry shakes his head. "I- it has to be either old or from today, though, because I haven't been around anyone since June," he admits quietly.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter. It makes these things easier when everyone involved is cooperative. Aurors Shacklebolt and Cain, will you start by testing for very recent spells? If that is unsuccessful, we can move on to general spells." Headmaster Nigellus walks away, and speaks to Flitwick quietly.

"Right, then; would you like to do the twenty-hour diagnosis?" Auror Cain asks, pushing his brown hair out of his face. He is only a little taller than Harry, but much more brawny.

"Sure. Stand still, Harry. This doesn't hurt," Kingsley says, and then starts to speak in Latin again. A thread of mist slithers out of his wand, and slowly forms a sparrow, perched on Kingsley's wand. The misty apparition flaps its wings once, and the twice, as if testing them; then it flies off of Kingsley's wand and around Harry, leaving a trail of mist around him. After it covers him, the bird vanishes and the mist starts to fade, but it leaves behind threads of mist that wrap around Harry in the same pattern as the inspection spell earlier. They start to glow the same colors as the threads before. Kingsley waits for what seems a long time before he ends the spell.

The two Aurors start to whisper to each other, and Harry turns to look at the other boy. Jon Fields now has a glowing pattern on his chest, and the three adults are studying it intently.

"Are you sure you don't know what it is, Mr. Potter? No idea at all, not even of where or when?" a woman asks gently, and Harry turns. Professor Marianne Sweet is standing beside him, looking very kind and maternal; or would that be grand-maternal? Harry had forgotten she was there.

"I'm sure," Harry says quietly. "If I knew I'd tell you. It's unsettling to have a spell on you and not know what it is. Um, if it wasn't cast today then it's got to be from June or earlier; and if it isn't from late May or early June, then it's probably from before late summer in 1997. I could be wrong, but... yeah. I didn't see many people in the year I was gone. Um, except for the Malfoys and Bellatrix, and they could've cast something on me while we were fighting."

"Bellatri- oh, you mean Bellatrix Lestrange. I think, as far as time-based spells go, we should go from two months ago and earlier, just to be safe." She directs her last words to the Aurors, who have finished talking. "Would you like me to check for Dark spells, first? It might help to know what type of spell it is. You were just checking for concealment, transport, influence and Dark, yes?"

The Aurors nod. "We were just talking about whether area-based or type-based spells would be best," Cain says. "Perhaps it would be better to start with transport and concealment charms, though. There are fewer types."

"No, that's only with concealment charms. You are forgetting concealment potions and transfigurations. I agree with the transport spells, however," Sweet says, smiling.

"So, we're agreed?" Shacklebolt says in a business-like tone, clapping his hands together. "We'll do transport, then Dark, then concealment, and then influence."

"I'll do the transport check, if that's alright," says Cain. "I'm best at those."

They all agree, and Cain begins moving his wand in intricate patterns. He finishes speaking, and Harry glows white. He cancels out the spell, and then casts a new one. He has to do this a great many times. Harry is feeling very tired and bored by the time he finishes. "No transport spells," Cain says.

"Well, that's a start. Hear that, Harry? You won't be dragged away to the middle of nowhere without any warning," Kingsley says cheerfully.

Cain says, conversationally, "Once I had a friend who was charmed to Apparate uncontrollably. They eventually locked him up in Hogwarts, because all of the Apparition was killing him slowly. It didn't work, though. The spell made him try, Hogwarts or no, and- well, it was messy. He was basically splinched, but not a one of the pieces was bigger than an inch. Luckily, it was summertime, so no students were around. Anyway, that's why I'm good with finding Transport spells."

Harry feels ill, imagining bloody body parts scattered around Hogwarts. He is so distracted by the story that he doesn't notice Professor Sweet casting Dark detection spells on him until she has already been casting them for a few minutes. They are done in the same way as all of the others, although there is one that makes the floor around his feet burn with cold flames. She casts something like fifty before anything else unusual happens.

Harry gasps and fights back a flinch as his back starts to burn. It gets worse and worse until he drops to his knees and whimpers, and then it's so bad that he forgets where he is and who he is and why he didn't want to scream, and then he does scream.

_Aunt Petunia says, You freak! How dare you do those sinful things in this house? You made Dudley fall down the stairs and now his arm is broken. You'll burn in Hell for hurting my poor innocent baby. Demon child, witch child, you'll burn!_

_And she's tugging on his arm, pulling him to the kitchen and he doesn't know why they're going in there but it terrifies him and he tries to pull away but she tightens her hand and digs in her nails and it hurts. Devil own, freak, demon, witch child, she screeches._

_Then she's dragging him towards the stove and he gets a vague, unformed idea in the back of his mind of what she means to do and he starts to scream. Please, please, I didn't do it, I'm sorry, I'll be good._

_Fiend, devil, monster, you broke his arm, you'll burn for that, burn in Hell, she's saying. I'll teach you now, you'll know better, you'll see. _

_It's for your own good. _

_And she grabs the teapot off of the stove and tips it tips it tips it _

_His head is burning and his mouth is burning and his shoulder stomach back is burning and some gets in his eyes and his eyes are burning and he can't see and he screams screams SCREAMS, his voice high and scared. The water leaves red red marks wherever it touches, and she's still pouring and he can't stop screaming._

_He can't see, and Aunt Petunia has to take him to the hospital. She tells them that he accidentally knocked the teapot off the stove while she was distracted by Dudley, who just broke his arm. Poor woman, they all say, needing to go to the hospital twice in as many days, and now she'll have to pay for glasses as well..._

_That night, while Harry is in his cupboard, Aunt Petunia tells Dudley, Once upon a time there was a bad little boy and he hurt a precious little angel boy. But the angel got all better, and he wasn't scared of the nasty little boy, oh no, because the angel baby was a brave little boy, and because he knew that the mean freak was burned all up and wouldn't hurt him again. And the bad boy's eyes burned, too, and he never saw right again, no never, and that was how he was punished. So everyone lived happily ever the end. Good night, Duddikins, I love you._


	3. Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE: Curse Detection

CHAPTER THREE: Curse Detection

Harry collapses to the ground in a sharp-edged pile of bones, as if all of his joints fail at the same time. Kingsley leaps forward and is on his knees beside him almost before Harry hits the ground. Harry's forehead hits the ground, his legs coiling under him as he twists into a fetal position. It is only then that he begins screaming. He screams in the way a baby cries, long and loud and with barely a pause to breathe.

"Harry, what hurts?" Kingsley asks urgently. He reaches his hands out as if to touch Harry, comfort him, but hesitates, not wanting to hurt him more through carelessness. "Harry, what's wrong? Tell me what hurts," he begs, trying to keep his voice calm though his hands are shaking. "Harry, tell me where it hurts so we can help you."

"It's _her_ spell," Cain says, his words laced with horror. "She- it's not the spell that we're looking for. It's the last detection spell she cast. How could you-" he snarls, spinning to face Professor Sweet.

She interrupts him, her voice tight. "It's a detection spell. After all the other detection spells failed to find anything, I assumed the spell we are looking for wasn't dark. I just meant it as a precaution. I wouldn't have used it if I thought it would work." She lifts her chin higher, the gesture somewhere between haughty and defensive.

Harry is still screaming, and they have to speak loudly to be heard. Harry digs his nails tightly into his arms and is coming dangerously close to breaking the skin. It must make a very strange scene, Kingsley reflects; a kindly grandmother yelling at a scarred Auror, while a bald man with an earring kneels beside a screaming young man, and while the Headmaster walks toward them at a brisk pace. He wonders, in the detached and logical part of his mind that wonders these things while the rest of his brain panics, what someone would think was happening, if they walked into the room right now.

"If you thought it wouldn't help, why did you bother?" Cain snaps. "Obviously, you thought it would do something, or you wouldn't-"

Around this moment, Kingsley's mind catches up with their conversation, and he realizes that Sweet must know the counter-spell. "I don't care who cast it or why, just end it!" he bellows.

Sweet had seemed guilty before, but now she has become stubborn through arguing. "We need to know from what point the curse originates," she says to Kingsley, as gentle and sensible in voice and manner as a mother explaining a standard practicality to her child. "The spell can help us. If we just get Harry to tell us where it hurts-"

"End it now," Kingsley says, just loud enough to be heard over Harry. "Or by Merlin I'll get you charged for child abuse faster than-"

"--than I can have you removed from the premises and sent to Azkaban for using a high-level detection spell on a teenager, Marianne. End the spell. It is unnecessary," the headmaster says calmly, having finally reached them and comprehended the situation. "End the spell," he repeats firmly when Sweet seems about to object.

She ends the spell.

Harry immediately stops screaming, and starts to shake and gasp for breath. No one speaks until, with Kingsley's help, he raises himself shakily into a sitting position.

"Where does it hurt, Harry?" Sweet asks gently, once again shamefaced and penitent. "I'm sorry for hurting you. I didn't think that that spell would-"

"I'm fine," Harry answers stiffly. "It wasn't like it was an Unforgivable or anything." His expression is, once again, blank and controlled; Kingsley had been expecting some sign of weakness, but weakness shows only in Harry's uncontrollably shaking fingers and pale face.

"No, dear, of course it wasn't. I wouldn't use anything like that, even if it wasn't meant to work. But we need to know where it hurt, because it will help us to discover what spell is on you."

"How dare you," Cain says quietly, his eyes dark with anger. "After you cast that spell, after you made him scream, you still dare to try to use it to your own advantage? You bloody Slytherin-- you don't even feel a bit sorry-"

The headmaster interrupts calmly and with great composure. "There is no reason not to ask him. After all, the damage is already done. We may as well make the best of it. Mr. Potter?"

"My back," Harry replies softly, turning his face down so that his hair partially hides it—a gesture of wounded pride. "My back was hurt." He scowls at the floor.

"Are you wearing Muggle clothing under your robes? We need to see where you were hurt."

Harry nods, and unties the strings holding the throat of his robe shut. He shrugs it off his shoulders without standing, and then tugs off his shirt. Kingsley hisses in his breath sharply in sympathy. Harry's back is covered in bright red and white lines of burned skin. A second glance shows that the burns mark a spell-pattern, but Kingsley turns away almost immediately, appalled at the pain that Sweet has put the child through.

The headmaster crouches behind Harry and studies the marks, tracing the lines with his hand and carefully refraining from touching them. His lips move silently, shaping strange words, some that Kingsley vaguely recognizes and some that he doesn't: fehu reversed, hagalaz reversed, nauthiz reversed, algiz reversed, closed spiral, broken spiral, hexagram chain, and closed, among many others.

"It might be a control spell of some kind," the headmaster finally says, lowering his hand. "The only thing that I can tell you for sure is that it's old and has been renewed at least twice. I'll call someone from the Department of Mysteries in to look at the curse-lines tomorrow. In the meantime..." He claps his hands, and a house-elf appears. "Fetch some burn salve, Milly."

The house-elf vanishes and reappears with a jar of white goop, which the headmaster hands to Kingsley. Nigellus is very tired; exhaustion adds extra lines to his wrinkled face. "Escort Mr. Potter to the eighth-year dorms and help him with the salve before sleep, if you will. Marianne, come," the headmaster orders. He turns and walks out without saying goodnight.

"You go on, Cain," Kingsley says, after the teachers have left. "I can get Harry to his dorm well enough on my own." He opens the jar of goop.

"Alright. I'll see you in the morning, okay? And don't worry, kid," he adds to Harry. "If the spell's been on that long, nothing unexpected will happen tonight." Cain leaves, yawning.

Harry sighs in relief as Kingsley smears the first dab of salve gently across his back. The goop, though disgusting in appearance, is cool and pleasant.

"At least you can't say your first day back was boring," Kingsley tells Harry.

Harry laughs. "I don't think I've ever had a boring first day. Less happens on some than on others, that's all."

They were silent for a bit while Kingsley worked on the salve. "Did you have a good summer?" he asks finally.

"Yeah. Well, after I escaped to Grimmauld place. The press was crazy earlier on. I thought they'd drive me mad."

"Don't like fame and fortune?"

"Kingsley, you _know_ me. I already had fame and fortune before I killed Voldemort, and I didn't like them then. Why should I like it anymore now that it's worse?" He sighs. "At least the Weasley's and everyone are treating me the same."

"You're dating the youngest Weasley, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I am. Ginny's great. She won't be here until tomorrow, though. She has Quidditch tryouts. If she gets in she'll be leaving school in December. She's only coming back at all because her mum's pushing her to get her N.E.W.T.s."

"Oh? Good for her, either way. Alright, I'm done with the salve. Do you need help getting up?"

"No, I'm fine." Harry stands shakily, and grins at Kingsley. "See?"

"Alright, but tell me if you need help." Kingsley picks up Harry shirt and robes. Harry, who is struggling to keep his balance, lets him carry them. "Are you ready to see your new rooms?"

"Are they in the dungeons?" Harry asks, shivering just at the thought of living in the cold and murky dungeons. There would be lots of snakes, rats and spiders, of course, and other nasty slimy things that bite.

"No, you'll be on the sixth floor. All of the eighth years are living together in the guest wing. The Aurors will be there, too." Kingsley smiles reassuringly at Harry, noticing the shiver. "I'm sorry that I don't know any warming charms. You'll be able to put your robes back on by the time we get to the rooms, though. It only takes about fifteen minutes for the salve to form a protective coating."

"No- I'm alright," Harry hurries to correct him. "I was just thinking about how horrible the dungeons must be. I don't know why they make anyone live down there."

"I've been told that the dorms aren't as bad as the corridors. There are many thick rugs and fireplaces, for one thing."

"Oh." That was unexpected. "Who told you that?"

"My first lover. He was very proud of being in Slytherin, and would defend his house's reputation to the death if necessary; not that it ever was. I lost count of how many detentions he got for fighting, though. All someone had to say was 'slimy Slytherin' and he'd have his wand out." Kingsley chuckles.

"He?" Harry said, teasing. He expects Shacklebolt to blush and correct his slip of the tongue, saying something like, 'Oh, I meant to say "she"; how embarrassing!' Then Harry would tease him unmercifully.

"Yes, he," Kingsley says firmly.

"Oh!" Harry catches himself staring and turns away, his cheeks red. He hopes he hasn't offended Kingsley or come across as a naïve idiot. "I- um, I didn't know that... um, that..."

"That I swung that way?" Kingsley raises an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you're prejudiced."

"What do you mean? No, I just... um. I didn't know boys ever dated boys." He turns even redder as Kingsley stares at him incredulously.

"Harry, exactly how sheltered _are _you?" he asks. Kingsley's voice sounds as astonished as he looks.

Harry hides his face in his hands and groans. "I somehow always miss these things. Don't tell Hermione; she'll just add it to the 'why Harry is hopeless at relationships' list."

"I won't. Does she actually have that list? I wouldn't put it past her."

"Only mentally," Harry says. Kingsley laughs.

After walking in silence for awhile, they stop in front of a wide, floor-to-ceiling landscape (or, more precisely, Kingsley stops and Harry bumps into him). The painting is of green, gently rolling hills and a blue sky, with a large, twisted apple tree in a hollow on the right and high grass. "This is the entrance to the guest wing," Kingsley says. "The password is 'Lords and Ladies, grant us entrance'." As he speaks, a raven takes flight from within the leaves of the tree, a snake slithers out of the grass, a badger lumbers out of its den among the roots of the tree, and a lion ambles over the top of the nearest hill. The painting twists into a large, wooden door.

"Robes?" Kingsley offers, holding out Harry's discarded robe and shirt. "The salve should have set by now."

"Yeah; thanks for carrying them," Harry says, taking the robe and tugging it over his head. He ties the green laces that run to his waist tightly and carefully, so that his bare chest is well hidden. Now that it has solidified, the bandage-like salve will keep the cloth from irritating or infecting the burns. He then takes the shirt from Shacklebolt.

Kingsley opens the heavy door and gestures Harry in before him. Harry makes a face at being treated so gently, but goes in first anyway. The common room before him is strikingly large. The two huge fireplaces on the wall across from him dwarf the honey-colored wooden door in between them.

The walls and floor are made of stone, but there are a great many thick, green, blue, and green-blue rugs on the floor. The tapestries, over-stuffed couches and candles are also colored green and blue. The wooden items in the room- including bookshelves, the fireplace-door, a door to the left, many small tables, and several other items- are all in the same golden-yellow color. The little bit of metal in the room appears to be gold, but it probably isn't.

"That door," Kingsley says, pointing to the door between the fireplaces, "leads to the eighth year dorms and bathrooms. The Aurors are over there." He points to the door in the left wall. "Can you get to bed alright on you own? The doors are marked by house, so you just have to go to the Gryff- the Slytherin door." Kingsley looks longingly at the door to the Auror quarters.

Harry nods. He made it up to the sixth floor well enough without any real help, so he can certainly make it across a room and into bed. Kingsley grins. "Night," he says, and leaves through the Auror door.

Harry goes the student door and into a long corridor of doors. The first two are marked "Gryffindor Boys" (the left door) and "Girls" (the right door). The next two are "Ravenclaw Boys" and "Girls Bath". The next door on the left has a plaque that says, "Slytherin Boys". Harry gratefully goes in. This room is decorated in dark wood, green cloth and silver metal. There are four beds along the right wall. The first two have their green curtains closed and the third has Terry Boot in it, but the fourth is empty and has Harry trunk at the foot of it.

Harry collapses onto the bed without even taking off his shoes. He thinks vaguely that he should do so, but the bed is so comfortable that he goes to sleep as he is.


	4. Chapter Four

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

CHAPTER FOUR: Dreams, Breakfast and Theory

In the night, Harry dreams that he hears a voice in his ear, whispering, "Lord, Master, awaken to the dawn so I may be fed."

"Nnn, gway, nymas," Harry mumbles with his face pressed in the pillow. This means, "No. Go away. I'm not your master."

Even this strange, vaguely uncomfortable dream is better than that of which he has been dreaming since Voldemort's death. A cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless; and he falls back asleep without contemplating the dream in any more depth than that.

He is woken by Terry less than half an hour later. "It's almost seven thirty," Terry explains apologetically, although Harry isn't sure for what he's apologizing. "Classes start at quarter after eight this year; they told us before bed last night."

"Thanks," Harry mumbles. When Terry has left, Harry groans and crawls to the foot of the bed, groggy-eyed. He digs a muggle t-shirt, jeans, a piece of rope and one of his robes out of his trunk without getting off of the bed. It is harder to get into a trunk while leaning upside down over the lid than it is to just get up and walk around to the front, but Harry hasn't slept enough and he doesn't think of it.

After his shower in the bathroom across the hall, Harry is very careful to tie the rope (his make-shift belt) and the laces on the robe-front very tightly. His ragged muggle clothing embarrasses him, and Malfoy has enough to taunt him with already. He could choose to wear only pants and a long shirt underneath his robes, as many of the wizard-raised students do, but that feels too revealing.

He has yet to see anyone but Terry. The common room, also, lacks students or Aurors. It is so quiet that Harry feels as if he should tiptoe.

In the Great Hall, there are eight piles of paper on each table. Puzzled, Harry walks over to the Slytherin table and looks down at the first pile of paper. The top piece is a schedule with 'Slytherin First Year' written on it. This is a strange way of going about things; usually the Head of House hands out the schedules. Harry heads down to the other end of the table. There is only one schedule left here, so he must be the last eighth year to come down.

Unlike the first year schedule, his name is written across the top. Today, Monday, he has Magical Theory at 8:15, Transfiguration at 10:00, lunch at 11:30, Potions at 12:45, Herbology at 2:30, and free time after 4:00. It's his busiest day all week. On no other day does he have more than three classes, and he even has all of Friday off.

A scratching sound distracts him from the schedule, and he discovers that Terry, back from wherever he'd gone, has pushed a plate of food to him. "Eat," Terry orders. "It's almost time for class, and Theory is all the way on the fifth floor."

"Thanks," Harry says, taking the food and beginning to eat.

"They've done a new scheduling pattern this year," Terry says, sitting. "We all- the eighth years, I mean- have the same schedule. Well, at least for the classes we take. I mean, if you take Potions, you're in with all the others taking Potions; and if you don't take Potions then you have free time."

Harry nods without speaking. Swallowing his mouthful, he asks, "Which classroom?"

"Number five-eighty-two; I think I know where it is, if you want me to show you," Terry offers uncertainly, not looking entirely sure that he does know where it is.

"No, I know where it is. It's near the statue of Gregory the Smarmy. We can walk together, though, if you want." Harry, finished eating, looks around the hall and discovers that it is nearly empty. He is briefly grateful for the years when he had to eat as much as possible before Dudley stole his plate. He stands. "Do you think we need to get our books first?"

"No, Nigellus said we don't need them today. You were asleep when he was talking," he adds, unnecessarily. "Besides, we don't have any books for Theory yet."

"Alright. Ready to go?"

Surprisingly, they reach the Theory several minutes before the bell rang. They are the last to arrive. It takes a few seconds for anyone to notice he's arrived, and then the talk dies out as people nudge each other and point at him. To Harry's relief, Hermione beams when she sees him. "Harry!" she cries, "Thank goodness! Come here and sit." She orders, sounding quite like Mrs. Weasley. "You worried us," she says, when Harry is standing by her. "You didn't come back last night, but Ron made me god to bed at midnight; and then you weren't at breakfast, and finally we gave up because we needed to come to class- we need to be good influences on the younger student and all because we're prefects again- and what happened? What spell was on you?"

While she says this, Ron grins at Harry, as if to say, 'there she goes again, but what can we do?' Harry finds himself smiling for the first time that day. Even though he's in Slytherin, they still like him.

The bell rings, and Harry quickly sits at the desk next to Hermione. Almost immediately, the blue-eyed teacher- the one who reminds Harry of McGonagall- strides into the classroom. She waves her wand at the blackboard, creating the words, 'Professor Alyssum: Theory of Magic'. Alyssum spins around to face the classroom and briskly says, "Welcome to Magical Theory. You should have begun this class in your first year and at least five years of it, preferably seven. As it is, you have one year. You will not be able to pass a N.E.W.T., and it will be a miracle if you learn enough to create your own spells.

"However, I will attempt to teach you enough to give you a basis on which to base any future studies in the subject or any other advanced subject that you wish to undertake. We will study types of magic, the differences in abilities of different magical creatures, the phenomenon of muggleborn and squibs, the nature of magic, the laws of magic, why the spells we use work, how the spells we use work, and perhaps the very basics of spell design. If we move quickly enough in this overview, we will study more.

"Today we will discuss-" she waves her wand at the board, "-accidental magic. To quote a well know Magical Theorist, Rowling: 'Before they have received training, very young witches and wizards are prone to unstable surges of power, often accidentally producing effects that they may have to train for a few years to be able to reproduce deliberately. Their magical ability is bottled up for weeks at a time and then, when made angry or frightened, it simply explodes out of them, sometimes... causing at least as much inconvenience to themselves as others.' This is, of course, a simplified description of the matter. We'll cover it in much more detail later on. It will do to begin, however.

"Can everyone tell me how many accidents they had?" Several people raise their hands, and Alyssum points to Anthony Goldstein. "You?"

"Two, Professor."

"And what happened?"

"Once I fell out of a tree and floated down, and then I could do that whenever I wanted. My mum took my favorite toy away from me when I was little, I called it back once. She took it away again and I couldn't repeat that."

"Good; those are both great examples. Next: has anyone in this classroom had three or more accidents?"

Harry, Hermione, Malfoy, and Hannah Abbott raise their hands.

"Wonderful! How about four?"

Now Harry is the only one with his hand raised. With a detached feeling of surprise, he realizes that maybe his accidental magic is, even here, as abnormal as his aunt and uncle had always thought.

"Can you tell us about your accidental magic, Mr. Potter? All of the times, if you please."

"Um... It happened more often when I was littler, and I can't really remember most of those," he says apologetically, but she nods encouragement. "Well, I shrunk a sweater to puppet-sized, and my hair grew back overnight, and... my teacher's hair turned blue, um, and... the glass to a snake exhibit vanished, and third year I blew up my Aunt Marge like a balloon- although the ministry thought that was on purpose- and... umm... that sort of thing. Those were the biggest ones, I think, or at least of what I can remember." The students are staring at him (again). This way of magic, their eyes tell him, is not normal.

"That's five, Mr. Potter." Alyssum says slowly. "Are you saying you've had more than that?"

He shrugs. "They've all been little things, though, other than those."

"Such as?"

"Lights flickering, glass breaking, bruises healing overnight, doors unlocking. Not feeling hungry when I ought to." He shrugs again, hoping to pass this off as nothing.

Professor Alyssum watches him thoughtfully for a moment, and he feels a bit like he is standing before Dumbledore- those eyes! "Who here can tell me the average number of times a witch or wizard will experience accidental magic?" she asks.

No one raises their hand; not even Hermione, surprisingly.

"No one? Come on, then, it's five points to the house of the one who answers."

Neville looks at Harry enquiringly, and gestures at himself- should I go? Harry nods. Neville hesitantly raises his hand, and says, "Two?"

"Good guess. Five points to Gryffindor, Mr...?"

"Longbottom, Ma'am."

"Yes. The actual number is one to three, occasionally four if the wizard is powerful and has an unusual number of life-and-death situations. I'm not counting repeat instances; when you have a case of accidental magic and are able to repeat the feat wandlessly. Those end by the time you reach school age, just like all of your other accidental magic.

"There have only been five recorded cases of accidental magic during the school years: Circe, who was part Veela, could cast memory charms without a wand; Narcissus Malfoy, who was thought to be a squib and hence not educated, had his first and only magical outburst at the age of twelve; Salazar Slytherin, who was not entirely human; Abraham Sol, who was Muggleborn and, like Narcissus, non-magical until age eleven, had one case of accidental magic; and Tom Riddle, who had perfect control of his magic until school began, after which point he had one case of accidental magic.

"There have been eleven recorded cases of five accidents or more. Tom Riddle and Salazar Slytherin are the only ones in both groups; most of the others had mostly cases of things like 'lights flickering', as Mr. Potter put it. The rest of the group was made up of semi-humans.

"In addition to those exceptions, there were the Fair Folk, but there hasn't been one of them for a long time- we'll cover that later. There are also non-human beings, which we'll also cover later.

"There are seventeen of you in this class, right?" Alyssum waves her wand at the board, and a list of sixteen names appears. "For homework, you will each study one of the exceptional cases of accidental magic. I want nine inches by Wednesday; who they were, what their lives were like, what their magic did, how their magic was unusual. All the information that you need is in those books over there," she says, gesturing at the bookshelves along the wall to her left. "You have the rest of the period to work on it. Mr. Potter, we'll discuss an alternate assignment for you.

"Who wants Abraham Sol?"

When all of the students but Harry had chosen, she called him up to her desk. "Were you telling the truth?" she asks without preamble.

"I don't lie," Harry snaps, clenching his scarred hand at his side.

She nods. "Good. I didn't really think you were, by the way. Now, I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but there is a law at the ministry that anyone who has school-aged accidental magic or more than four uses of it must be reported to the ministry." Seeing Harry's discomfort, she adds, "Don't worry, it isn't illegal or in any way punishable. It isn't like the werewolf register, or even strictly regulated like the Animagus register. It's mostly for census reasons, really."

She waits for a moment, likely to see if he'll ask for more information. When he doesn't, she pushes on. "Basically, I want a list and descriptions of all your uses of accidental magic, dates where possible, and descriptions of the situation surrounding each use. This must be signed by you with a promise that you are telling the truth. Lying on the paper- and I'm not suggesting that you would- will cause you immense pain and be easily recognizable by the ministry worker who handles it. Can you do that by Wednesday?"

Harry nods. "I think so. I only have two classes tomorrow."

"Ah, lucky boy; I have every period. Alright, you can get to work on that." She stands and heads over to some other students, saying, "And why am I not seeing working happening over here?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

To Harry's great pleasure, he is finished the list by the end of the class. It reads:

'?-1991: Various small magic, such as lights flickering, bruises healing overnight, winds appearing from nowhere, and glass (especially wine glasses) breaking.

'?-1985: Something with fire, I can't remember.

'Winter 1986: My aunt cut my hair all off except for my bangs because she was tired of it growing back too fast. I was very embarrassed, so it grew back by morning.

'Fall 1987: My teacher was picking on one of the kids and I was so mad at her for making them cry and be embarrassed. So then her hair turned blue and everyone laughed at her.

'Fall 1998: A bully and his gang were chasing me at school and I jumped aside to hide behind the garbage cans and the next thing I knew I was up on the roof with no idea of how I got there, and the bullies were confused because one minute I was there and the next I was gone.

'Winter 1989: My aunt tried to make me wear a really ugly sweater with bobbles on it, and she was trying to shove it over my head while I was trying to keep it off, and it started getting smaller and smaller until it wouldn't have fit a hand puppet. And that was a lot smaller, because the sweater had used to be my cousin's and he's really really fat.

'June 23, 1991: On my cousin's birthday we went to the zoo and I apologized to one of the snakes because my cousin was being awful to it. Then it was nodding and shaking its head and using its head to point to the sign while I talked to it. Then my cousin came over and yelled and pushed me over and smushed his face up against the glass. I was really angry and then the glass vanished and he fell into the tank, and the snake got free and said 'thanks, amigo', or something like that.

'August 1993: Glass breaking and lights flickering.

'August 1993: My aunt Marge, who isn't really my aunt, was saying horrible stuff about my parents and I was angry. So then she took a deep breath to keep ranting, but she just kept getting bigger and bigger as she breathed in, and bigger and bigger until she was blown up like a balloon. Then she blew out through the window and up into the air. And it was an accident, but the ministry thought I did it on purpose.

'I here do swear that all things stated on this paper are true, including the bit about my cousin being really fat.

'Harry Potter'

He gives it to Professor Alyssum at the end of the period. She scans it, does a double take on the last line, coughs, skims the parchment again, and looks up at him with stern eyes. "Before, you mentioned not getting hungry and unlocking doors. Why aren't they written?"

There is a pretty quill on the desk, which Harry picks up and studies. Coincidentally, this allows him to avoid meeting her gaze. "Oh, um... I forgot; about the door unlocking thing, I mean."

"Mm. Yes, of course. Well, I'd like you to add a line saying something along the lines of, 'I have not willfully omitted anything, although I may have forgotten'."

Harry quickly adds 'not feeling hungry when I should' to the '?-1991' section and 'door unlocking' to the '1993' section, and then scribbles Alyssum's suggestion at the bottom, in very small letters between 'really fat' and his name.

She looks it over one more time, smiles, and sends him on his way.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


	5. Chapter Five

AN: As of next chapter, this story's title will probably be changed to "Glass Magic", so don't be surprised if you get an alert for a story by that title.

**Chapter Five: Spell Removal**

"Mr. Potter! Mr. Harry Potter, sir!" A small, shrill voice calls.

Harry turns to face the voice, expecting to see a house-elf, but it is a first year girl. "It's _Harry_," he corrects, for what must be the hundredth time. "What can I do for you?"

"The headmaster wants to see you in the Great Hall, Harry, sir! There are _Unspeakables_ there!" The child looks as if she's about to fall over from the excitement.

Harry sighs, but can't help grinning at her exuberance. "Thank you for telling me. I'll go there right away."

As soon as Harry has turned away from her, she skips off, and he can hear her giggling and squealing with her friends. (Why do small girls always feel the need to shriek like that? He is fairly certain Hermione has never done that.)

He is already to the main staircase, heading from Theory to Transfiguration, so it only takes him a moment to reach the Great Hall. There are indeed three Ministry workers there, although how the girl knew they were Unspeakables is a mystery to Harry. All three are wearing dark robes with silver trim; perhaps that is the standard uniform of Unspeakables.

One of them is a brown-haired man, whose thick, wing-like eyebrows and dark eyes remind Harry of someone. There is also a blonde woman, who looks at Harry with sharp grey eyes, and a small, nervous man with shaggy black hair.

"This is him, then?" The woman asks brusquely, walking over to Harry and looking him over. "I don't like the looks of him; his hair is messy," she announces, and scowls at him as if it were his fault.

"Yes, that's Mr. Potter," the headmaster responds. He sounds tired. "Come along to the teachers' room, please, all of you." He turns and walks to the small door behind the high table. The three Unspeakables follow him immediately, but Harry lags behind a bit, uncomfortable with the knowledge that he is going into a small room with four people he doesn't really know.

"Hurry up, child!" the blonde woman snaps, reminding Harry of Dudley's Aunt Marge. He glares back at her, but follows.

Stepping into the room, he is pleasantly surprised by the complete change in decoration. The light colors and hard chairs fail to bring to mind the Tri-Wizard Tournament at all.

"This is Unspeakable Jameson," Nigellus says, gesturing to the shaggy-haired man. "This is Unspeakable Smith," he waves his hand at the woman, "and this is Unspeakable Lestrange," he nods his head in the direction of the brown-haired man and drops his hand to his side.

"Oh!" says Harry, finally placing the man. "That's who you remind me of; you look like Rabastan!" As soon as he has said it, he realizes how rude it is to compare someone to an infamous Death Eater, and he covers his mouth with his hand. "Sorry," he mumbles.

"Only _distantly _related," the man says, offended.

"Sorry," Harry repeats, and puts his hand back down.

"May we see your back, please, Harry?" the nervous man asks, fiddling awkwardly with the sleeves on his robe.

Harry glances at the headmaster, who nods. "Go on, Mr. Potter."

Harry unlaces the throat of his robes and lets them slide to the floor, then tugs off his ancient Dudley-shirt. He turns so they can see his back. Someone- Harry suspects the small, worried man, although he can't know for sure with his back turned- gasps upon seeing the harsh red burns, half-healed after a night of healing salve.

Someone steps closer to Harry, and he feels a flutter of cool air as the person traces the outline of the marks in the air. "If I had to guess, I'd say it's been on him since he was just a little child- three or four, five at the latest. It's definitely been renewed several times, and it has strengthening charms all over it," she says. Harry is surprised to hear a note of pity in the voice of the woman who had been so harsh but a moment before. "We'll have to sort out the levels before I can tell the exact nature of it, but the runes I can see suggest some kind of control or power-draining spell."

"It has to be a control spell, then; we all know that Harry is a very powerful wizard, so no one could have been draining him, especially not with a strong, layered spell like that." There is something almost sycophantic in the wobbly voice of the shaggy-haired wizard, and Harry barely stops himself from sneering.

"No, really, Jameson? Congratulations on stating the obvious," Lestrange mocks. "See if you can spot any memory-related runes, Annabelle," he adds, in a much nicer tone.

"Hmmm... yes, all around the edges, and tied to the casting. That's why you didn't know about it, child," she adds to Harry, "The memory runes are set to block your memory of the spells being cast."

"You may as well remove the marks from the copycat right away, then. Unless you think there are some influencing the actual spell?"

"No, there's only this set on the outside. Would you do the _copycat_, Jameson? You're best at that." There is something off in her voice, and Harry realizes after a moment that she is accusing Jameson of _being_ a copycat.

Jameson sputters for a moment, but, unable to actually accuse her of anything, gets to work. He gently presses a sheet of parchment against Harry's back, then intones a long (very long) string of Latin words.

When he has pulled the piece of paper away, Harry is told to put his shirt back on and then summarily ignored while they mutter over the parchment- which is now covered in delicate, swirling black lines- and occasionally cast spells on it or move parts of it onto another piece or parchment.

Finally, they seem satisfied, and turn their attention back to Harry and the headmaster. "It's a magical suppression spell," says Lestrange, the anger in his eyes making him look more like Rabastan than ever. "It has been renewed twice and strengthened thrice, and Unspeakable Smith's guess that he was three or four years old at the original casting seems about right."

Jameson is looking at Harry in a nearly worshipful fashion. "He shouldn't be able to use magic at all," he breathes. "Not at all, not at all, and to be so _powerful_..." his voice quivers with glee, reminding Harry uncomfortably of a teenaged Wormtail.

"We can't take it off," Lestrange says softly, darkly. "He wouldn't be able to control that much power, no one could. Best scenario it would kill him; worst scenario it would killeveryone _else_ as well."

"But-" Jameson protests shrilly, "but- the _power_-"

"We can't leave it on, either, Lestrange!" Smith argues over Jameson's protests. "It's going to break sooner or later- it's obviously already cracked, now, and been leaking for years, otherwise he wouldn't be able to use magic, otherwise they wouldn't have bothered renewing and strengthening it-"

"Then what do you suggest we _do_, Smith?" Lestrange hisses. "There's no way to take it off without endangering-"

"But at least we'd have some control over it! If we leave it-"

"Why not take off only part of it until he gets used to it?" Jameson suggests loudly, in the tone of someone who has repeated themselves several times (which, in fact, he had).

Smith and Lestrange look at him, then at each other, understanding and relief growing on both of their faces at once. "Knew you would come in handy for _something _eventually, Jameson," Smith breathes. They huddle together and mumble things again for a bit.

Meanwhile, Headmaster Nigellus says, "Do you understand what they're trying to tell you, Mr. Potter?"

"Not really," Harry admits. "Something about my magic being suppressed, and people dying no matter what they do."

"Do you understand how accidental magic works?"

"Yeah. Your magic doesn't have an outlet until you start school, so it builds up and builds up until it can't fit anymore, and then it explodes out when something sets it off," Harry says (and wouldn't Professor Alyssum be happy to know that one of her students had retained the lesson?).

"Exactly, except that you want to recall that accidental magic doesn't _all_ escape- only a little bit of it, until the child is calm again," says the headmaster. "In addition, when you start school, you use magic frequently, so it slowly drains out of you instead of building up. With a suppression spell, your magic is unusable, locked inside of you as if someone had built a thick metal box around it. The effect is that it slowly grows, until it reaches the point when it- so to speak- explodes. However, because the box is so much bigger than your natural magical container, it takes many years, even a lifetime; and the effects are _extremely_ explosive- the difference between childish accidental magic and suppressed magic escaping is like the difference between a candle and a bonfire.

"Somehow, your magic- _in theory_- managed to grow large enough to break loose in just a few years, but, because you were still very young, didn't all escape; it only went on until you were calm. That meant that the box didn't break, but only cracked; and also that it didn't cause a bonfire, only lit a hearth fire.

"Then the original caster, likely believing that the spell had somehow broken, either cast a strengthening charm on it- making the box stronger- or renewed the spell- in other words, put a new box outside of the original one.

"Your magic, now having learned that it was possible to escape its confines, and stronger from the practice, grew faster, and soon broke through its fastenings again. They renewed or strengthened the spell. Your magic broke loose; they did it again. Every time this was repeated, your magic had to break through stronger, larger containers; meaning that it was, this entire time, growing slowly stronger.

"Then you came to school. You should have been unable to use magic at all; suppression spells are meant to leave one as the practical equivalent of a squib. Yet you are, strangely, a strong wizard; not abnormally so, but nonetheless strong. This means that your magic is actually strong enough to force tendrils of itself through all of those many boxes and spells.

"What worries these three is that if they take off the spells, your magic will be so large that it will be completely uncontrollable; the magical equivalent of a forest fire. On the other hand, if they leave the bindings on, you magic may well grow too large to be held, and the same thing would result.

"Jameson's idea is to take off only one of the layers of spell- one strengthening charm, or one of the renewals- and see what happens; let you get used to having just that much free. When your body has adapted to that level of power and you have learned to control it, they would take off another layer, and so on."

"While this is dangerous and might take years," Smith breaks in, "It is far safer than either of the other options. Do you agree to this?"

"I- wait, I get a _choice_?" Harry asks, startled. "Yeah, I guess. You lot know better than I do."

An hour later, just in time for lunch, the Unspeakables left after an extraordinarily anti-climactic spell removal. As planned, only one layer had been painstakingly removed; but nothing exploded or changed or did anything at all interesting, and Harry felt no different than before. He didn't even get out of afternoon classes.


	6. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six: Giggles and Tests**

Harry's first impulse is to head for the Gryffindor table, but Nigellus stops him with a hand on his shoulder. "Wait until I give you a note to take to your classes, if you will, Harry," the grey-haired man says in his usual monotone, a strange contrast to the gentleness of his grip.

"Alright," Harry replies, and uses the wait to look around the Great Hall. It looks different from the staff table, somehow; as if everyone is smaller. This amuses Harry to no end, as he is used to being shorter than all but the first years. He has a childish thrill of glee at actually being able to see _the tops of people's heads_- not that he will ever admit that to anyone, of course.

Hermione is at the Ravenclaw table, happily discussing something with one of the prefects, and something inside his chest tugs painfully as he remembers that he belongs with the Slytherins now.

"Here you are, Harry. Just show it to your teachers this afternoon, so they'll know to expect odd events in your vicinity." The man handed Harry a folded piece of parchment. It wasn't sealed, so Harry- after a quick glance at the Headmaster to ensure he wouldn't be yelled at- opened it and read the contents.

'Professors of Harry Potter,

'Please be aware the Mr. Potter has had his magic modified today in the process of removing the first of a number of dangerous Suppression Spells. As a result, strange things may well be happening today; beware of explosions, chaos, accidental magic, and the impossible. Be sure to keep him away from anything highly explosive or dangerously volatile. You are not to take points from him for any of the above events unless he causes them on purpose. Thank you,

'Headmaster Nigellus'

Merlin, only at Hogwarts would a teacher send out a note like that. Chuckling, he puts the parchment into his bag and heads for the Slytherin table. Once there, he plops down across from Terry Boot and grins at the freckled teen. "Hello," he says cheerfully, and is greatly amused when Terry looks completely befuddled by his cheer.

"Hello," Terry replies hesitantly. "Did you have good news about that spell, then? Nothing dangerous?"

"Oh, no, very dangerous," Harry says, still grinning although he doesn't know why. He supposes it must be a delayed reaction to finding out that he isn't going to explode and take the castle with him. "So dangerous, in fact, that at first the Unspeakables thought that if they left it on, I'd explode everything for miles when it broke; and if they took it off, I'd explode myself anyway. Only then they figured out that they could take it off in pieces." At this point he is feeling a bit giddy, and he begins to wonder if the Unspeakables put some kind of Cheering Charm on him.

"Oh?" says Terry weakly. Next to him, Nott is watching Harry warily, looking a bit frightened.

"Yes! It was brilliant. And now I'm not allowed to go near anything explosive because I'm too magical and things will go boom!" Harry bounces a little in his seat, tapping his fingers against the table as he fights the urge to _move_. "And I'm starting to scare myself because I'm hyper and cheerful and I don't know why," he adds, his grin widening a little as the thought amuses him. "And isn't that a funny thing? I mean, how can someone be scared of themselves? It's weird! Do we have any sugary stuff around here?"

"No," says Nott. He is starting to look very disturbed, but Harry doesn't notice, because he is talking about the candles now.

"-white? I mean, really, wouldn't it be cooler if the flames were blue green red yellow silver gold bronze black and stuff? Although the Hufflepuff table would be kind of ugly, with all that yellow and black- ick! It'd be like a funeral or something. Hey, they could all be mixed together! Wouldn't that be great? Like- like-" The energy that has been building in Harry suddenly seems like too much, and he _lets go_-

And, quite suddenly, the candle flames in the great hall are all of different colors. Harry slumps forward a bit, his grin fading with the excess energy. "That," he says after a moment, "was weird."

"No, really?" Malfoy says sarcastically, glaring at Harry.

"I really hope that doesn't happen again," Harry says, ignoring Draco. He looks up at the candles, which are set in a pattern- blue, green, yellow, red, bronze, silver, black, gold, blue, and so on. He thinks about how it felt to be so out of control, and shudders.

"They are sort of pretty, though," says Terry, reaching up to poke at one. It wobbles a bit, but doesn't do anything particularly interesting.

"Mr. Potter," calls the headmaster, "is this your doing?" The man doesn't seem angry, Harry decides, although it's hard to tell when he always looks so stern anyway.

"Yes, sir," Harry calls back. He fights back a blush. "Sorry."

"Quite alright, young man; it's a nice change, I think." The man returns his attention to his meal, ignoring the surprised comments and questions of his colleagues.

"You're not in trouble?" one of the younger Slytherins asks, amazed. She's a cute little thing (little being relative to the other Slytherins, not relative to Harry), and has grey eyes that remind him of Sirius. "If I did that, I'd be expelled for sure!"

"They don't punish you for Accidental Magic," Harry replies absently. Then he thinks of Aunt Marge, and wonders if that's entirely true.

He serves himself food, trying to ignore the gossiping children and his burning cheeks.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Welcome to Potions," Zachariah Snubuckle says, pushing his round glasses up on his nose. "I am aware that you have had a chaotic schooling experience over the past few years, between a new teacher for your sixth year and the general chaos of the past year." He seems to lift his nose a bit higher in an expression of disgust, although that might just be Harry's imagination. "In view of this fact, you will have a theory test today to measure your general knowledge of Potions and how much you have forgotten. There will be a practical test next class, so take care to prepare for it. Take out quills and ink while I pass the papers out."

The test packets are thick and covered in small writing. Harry flips to the back, and looks at the number on the last question: two hundred and fifty. There are two hundred and fifty questions on a test on the first day. Merlin, this guy was going to be as bad as Snape.

As Harry begins the test, however, he discovers that things aren't as bad as they seem. The first few questions are easy first-year things- 'How do you slice an ingredient, and how is this process different from shredding it?' 'When should you use a bronze cauldron instead of a pewter cauldron, and why?' Despite the apparent simplicity of the first questions, Harry is embarrassed to discover that he can't remember the answers to some of them- 'What is the base ingredient of Forgetfulness Potion, and why?' He remembers that it was forget-me-nots, but he has no idea of _why_ it is forget-me-nots, unless it's because they have 'forget' in their name. He writes that and hopes Snubuckle doesn't take away points for guessing.

He's about thirty questions in before he starts seeing second-year material- 'Why does Swelling Solution require puffer-fish eyes?' 'What part of a rat is required in Hair-Raising Potion, and why is this the part required?'

Another thirty questions, and the third-year section begins; Harry finds himself able to answer fewer questions. Another thirty, and he's on to fourth year; he can answer perhaps three-quarters of the questions partially, but all of them have that horrible 'why' tacked on. Since when have they needed to know _why_ they did something in Potions? That was just the way things were, that's all. He crosses something out on his paper, then rubs at the bridge of his nose as he tries to think of an answer. In the process he gets a smear of ink across his forehead, but he doesn't notice.

There are fifty-some fifth-year questions, and Harry finds himself able to answer only half of them, if that many; and there is still that thrice-cursed _why_! Then he reaches sixth year, with seventy-five questions left on the test. He can still answer about half of them, but absolutely _none_ of the 'why's.

He finishes the test just as the bell rings. "Pass them up, class, and head off to wherever you're supposed to be," Snubuckle says calmly, as if he hasn't just given them the worst exams since OWLs.

The students exit the classroom, grumbling to themselves and each other.


	7. Chapter Seven

AN: You may or may not be interested to know that several minor changes have been made to Chapter Four. All of these are during Magical Theory. Most important is the **absence **of mention of child abuse, and a little change in her description of the people who have had unusual accidental magic.

**Chapter Seven: Herbology, Discussion, Dinner and Fright**

Professor Sprout looks back and forth between Nigellus' note and Harry for a few minutes. "Well!" she breathes finally. "Only at Hogwarts, Mr. Potter; only at Hogwarts. I suppose you're to be excused from practicals for awhile, then? Until you have-" she pauses, looks around, and leans forward conspiratorially. "Until you have magic again?" she whispers.

Harry just stares at her for a moment, confused; then he starts up. "Oh!" he says, "No, no, you've misunderstood! The spells have been on me for a long time, since I was a child; the only problem is from the _removing _of them. My magic is fine, mostly."

"On you for a long time?" Sprout murmurs, staring at him with wide eyes and a suddenly pale face. "By Merlin, child, you can't be serious- oh, but you are, aren't you? Oh, oh- are you _sure_?" she asks, almost pleading.

Harry nods silently, bemused by her behaviour.

"Oh, dear, dear," she says softly, all a-flutter. "Well," she says finally, "Well, you'll just have to… Well. We'll just start the class then, yes? Yes, that's fine, go and… go and sit down, please." Harry does so.

Despite this, class doesn't start for a few more minutes, because Sprout can't seem to take her eyes away from Harry, drinking in his image as if he's- as if he's- but Harry's thoughts break off here, as he finds himself unable to compare himself to any of the most wonderful things with which Sprout seems to be comparing him.

"What's up with Sprout?" Ron asks, peering around Harry to study the awestruck woman.

Even with Sprout staring at him, Harry can't help but laugh at Ron's face, which is all scrunched up in confusion. "She found out about the spells on me, that's all. I'm not sure what the big deal is, though."

"You found out what it is?" Hermione says, peeking around Ron (Harry again fights back a laugh- it's a strange sight, with Ron leaning around Harry, and Hermione leaning around Ron). "Oh, good! It isn't anything dangerous, I hope?"

"No, not really. It turns out that there's been a magic-suppressing spell on me since I was a little kid, but I broke through it a bit so I can use my magic. I'll explain properly later," Harry adds in a whisper, because Sprout has started to speak, finally pulling her eyes away from him- for the moment, at least, because she sneaks a glance at him even as he thinks this.

Hermione sits back, looking intrigued and thoughtful.

Nothing else unusual happens in Herbology.

XXXXXXXXX

"I have less than an hour before Arithmancy," Hermione says hurriedly, grabbing Harry and Ron by the arms and heading at a swift walk toward the castle. "We can talk at the tower- sorry, the Eighth Dorm- so I can get my books- Professor Vector is ridiculous, she wants us to have all three books with us every class, even the first one, can you believe it?"

At the Eighth Dorm, Hermione tugs them onto a couch and looks at Harry expectantly. Used to this tendency of hers by now, he immediately launches into the story of the suppression spells.

At the end of it, Ron looks as enthralled by Harry's presence as Sprout had. Thankfully, he shakes himself out of it much more quickly than her. "Sorry," he says, noting the disquieted way that Harry is watching him. "It's just- Harry, it takes a wizard as strong as Dumbledore to get through one of those in less than a century. To hear that you broke through three of them in eighteen years- in _less than _eighteen years! It's alright, though, you don't have to look at me like that. I'll get over it. Don't I always?"

Harry shares a glance with Hermione. "Eventually," he says doubtfully.

Hermione laughs, and Ron's ears turn red. "Well, I'll get over it quicker this time," he mutters grouchily.

"Oh, no!" Hermione exclaims suddenly, "It's time for my class! Oh, no, I can't be _late_!" A few minutes of frantic rushing later, she's gone.

"A game of chess before dinner?" Ron says, once she's gone.

"Homework first, I think," Harry says, a mischievous glint in his eye. Ron's jaw drops, and Harry laughs. "Just to see the look on Hermione's face, yeah?"

The mischievous look spreads to Ron. "Let's," he says cheerfully. "We only have Herbology and Transfigurations homework, right?"

"Yeah, a comparison chart of cherry blossoms and cherry-tree leaves, and- oh, I missed Transfigurations."

"A nine-inch summary of the first two chapters of our sixth-year text," Ron replies. He begins pulling the necessary books and papers out of his bag, and, occasionally snickering at the picture in their imaginations, they get to work.

Harry is thankful that Ron seems to have forgotten about the suppression spells. If everyone is going to react like that, he thinks, then he'd best keep it a secret from now on.

XXXXXXXX

They finish about half an hour before Hermione gets back, and settle down to a game of chess. When she starts to berate them on playing chess before doing their homework, they- ever so innocently- reply that, "Of _course_ we've done our homework, Hermione!" To their great satisfaction and amusement, she spends about five whole minutes just staring and mouthing words without sound. When she finally collects herself, she- to _Ron's_ great satisfaction- promptly throws herself at Ron and kisses him deeply.

Harry laughs, but then- feeling a bit unnerved by the prolonged kiss- heads down to dinner without them. It runs from five-thirty to eight on the new schedule, and the time is six-thirty already.

"So I told him, 'If you don't get away from me right now, you great oaf, I'll curse your eyes off!' and that got him to go off quick enough, to be sure!" Malfoy is right at the end of some self-congratulatory tale when Harry arrives and sits silently across from him. The younger students, who have been listening intently, all laugh.

"Can you actually _do _that?" A blonde fifth-year asks, watching Malfoy with a hint of hero-worship. "Curse someone's eyes off, I mean?"

"Of course," Malfoy brags, puffing out his chest. "I've known that spell since I was in third year."

"Will you teach it to me?" One of the younger teens asks, and there is a sudden chatter of begging voices.

"Absolutely not," Malfoy says, looking startled. "What do you think I am? You need to find it on your own to prove you're skilled enough to handle it, just like always."

Harry grins. "Good going, Malfoy," he says softly, once the others have turned their attentions away.

Malfoy turns and looks at him with the air of one who has only just noticed someone's presence. "You're congratulating me for sending a bunch of kids off to look for dark curses?" he asks, raising one elegant eyebrow.

Harry laughs and shakes his head, "Of course not. I'm saying good job for sending them off to look for it instead of just teaching it to them."

"Uh-huh, sure," Malfoy says suspiciously, and returns to his meal.

They are the only eighth-years there, so Harry is able to eat his meal in peace after that.

Hermione and Ron arrive just as Harry is finishing. He grins and makes kissy faces at them on his way out, and it almost makes up for his discomfort earlier when they both turn red.

He spends the next hour playing solitaire and ignoring his roommates. Then he showers, gets prepared for bed, and falls asleep before the newly-created first-year curfew.

XXXXXXXXX

He wakes up in the middle of the night, terrified. His blankets have fallen off, and he is cold; every shiver seems to run and clatter through his suddenly fragile limbs. He has an image in his mind of the bed- everywhere but the places he's touching- falling away into nothing, leaving him floating in a void of space with only a tiny bit of bed to support him. If he moves he will fall away into nothing and shatter into a million pieces.

He eventually convinces himself to open his eyes to the dreadful sight, but there is mattress on either side of him.

Even with this comfort he is frightened, because he is so horribly, terribly fragile. If he moves in the wrong way he will shatter and break, and it will hurt. But if he goes back to sleep where he is, he could fall off of the bed and be hurt; or someone could shake him to wake him up, and he would be hurt. He tentatively moves a finger, and it doesn't hurt him. With a spurt of Gryffindor bravery, he sits up in one movement. His world spins and shrinks as he panics.

He is unharmed.

Frightened and shaking, he carefully moves to the floor, tugging his blankets and pillow with him. Horrible pictures of falling to the floor and falling apart fill his head. Finally he curls up in the dark, quiet space under his bed. Nearly sobbing with relief at having the protection of the bed over him and the floor under him, he hides within a nest of covers and tries not to scream.

Hours later, he falls asleep. The fright is gone when he wakes up, and the relief of that is enough to keep the teasing from bothering him ("Potter's so stupid he mixes up which part of the bed is up? Idiot! Wait until I tell the others," Malfoy sneered).

When he arrives at the Great Hall, he is pleased to discover that Ginny arrived the night before, after he went to sleep. Even sleep-deprived, his world seems to brighten from her presence. She is a bit unnerved by his Slytherin colours, but she seems to adjust to the idea after a few minutes of shock. She chatters to him about her Quidditch tryout the whole way to breakfast. She seems to have done well, and he is so very, very proud of her.


	8. Chapter Eight

AN: I swear that I didn't mean for the chapter title to sound like sexual innuendo. Also, part of this chapter is in past tense; that's on purpose.

Chapter Eight: Toys and Snakes

Harry looks up from his breakfast as Terry sits down across from him. "Good morning," Terry says cheerfully. "Looking forward to Charms?" They have Charms for first period.

"I guess. Think it'll be-" Harry is interrupted by the mail arriving. Most students get some form of newspaper of tabloid, and many students are getting packages of things they forgot at home; added to the relatively sparse number of letters, the Hall is filled with birds. Harry himself receives no mail today.

A little way down the table, someone groans. "Oh, Merlin, can't she just trash it all like I said?" a third-year girl complains.

"What is it?" a different girl asks, poking the box sitting in front of the first girl.

The first girl lifts her head from where she'd buried it in her hands, and Harry sees that she's the girl he'd noticed the night before, the one with eyes like Sirius'. "It's just some of my old kid stuff," she explains. "My mum is going through the boxes of my old toys to find stuff for my baby cousin. I told her to just give anything she wants to him- I haven't touched any of the boxes in the attic for years- but she's been asking about each little thing anyway. This is _more _stuff for me to go through and see if I mind her giving any of it away."

"Oh, cool," says the second girl. She leans forward over the box to see the toys inside it better. Her short black hair falls in her face, and she pushes it back behind her ear as she speaks. "My mum married a Muggle after my da died in the first war, so I only had Muggle toys growing up," she explains. "Can I see them?"

"Sure. You can even have them, if you want; my cousin's really too old for this stuff, but my mum doesn't like to throw stuff away." She shrugs carelessly, reminding Harry of Malfoy for a moment.

"Awesome," says the black-haired girl, tugging the box toward herself and peering in the top. "What this?" she asks, pulling out a transparent ball that seems to be made of glass. As she holds it, it begins to glow faintly, and little sparks of rainbow light dance around the inside of it.

"A glow globe," replies the grey-eyed girl. "It changes colours if you concentrate; it's supposed to help kids improve their visualizing skills or something like that. I never found it very interesting; it doesn't even _move_."

"Harry!" Terry says, sounding frustrated, and Harry realizes that Terry has been trying to get his attention for several minutes. "Where is your brain, somewhere in France?"

Harry looks back over at him. "Sorry," he says, flushing. "What were we talking about?"

Terry sighs. "You know, if you're that interested in the stupid kid toys I can get you some of mine," he says dryly.

Harry blushes even harder at being caught out, and his ears turn red like Ron's. Nonetheless, the idea of toys appeals to him. If Terry's serious, he wants to take him up on the offer despite the embarrassment- if Terry's not just baiting him. Warily, he says, "Are you just messing with me, or do you mean that?"

Terry blinks, startled, and then starts laughing. When Harry scowls and looks away, thoroughly humiliated, he manages to calm himself. "No, no, don't get upset," Terry says apologetically, "I wasn't just messing with you, okay? We have boxes and boxes of old toys up in the attic, and my mum wants desperately to give them to someone so they'll stop cluttering up the place. I only laughed because I didn't think you'd actually want them. Didn't you have wizarding toys when you were little?"

Reluctantly, uncertain if he wants to forgive Terry yet, Harry shakes his head. "No, I didn't know about magic until I got my Hogwarts letter," he says. It would, perhaps, have been more correct to explain that he hadn't had _any _toys as a child, wizarding or otherwise; but Harry isn't about to admit that to someone who has just laughed at him.

Terry sits back in his seat and whistles, eyes wide. "No kidding?" he says. "But you're- I mean- not to sound like a Witch Weekly writer, but you're _Harry Potter_."

Harry makes a face. "I know my own name, thanks," he grumbles. Seeing Terry about to protest, he relents slightly. "I know what you mean, though. It's alright. Can we change the subject?"

Terry pauses, thinking, and then asks, "Will you be playing for the Slytherin Quidditch team this year?"

Harry gapes at him. "What? No!" he sputters.

The rest of the meal is spent talking about Quidditch.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Welcome to Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts, second year. This year will be spent in detailed instruction about curse-breaking, ward-setting, the Dark Arts (only in theory, children), defence against dark creatures, and advanced defence methods against dark wizards. By now you should all have had a good overview of these subjects; hopefully you haven't forgotten everything you learned for your O.W.L.s and in sixth year.

"At least once a month we will discuss a famous battle against dark wizards. Today I'm going to tell you about the battle between Aqua Nigellus, a dark witch, and the good wizard Portus Nott. It was the year 192, and the world was in chaos…"

XXXXXXXXXXX

Harry had a wonderful day. His morning was perfectly normal, involving a Charms class (all theory work, no practical), a free period spent doing homework and losing at chess against Ron, lunch, a pretty good Defence class, some more homework, and then a completely work-free afternoon of flying, a visit to Hagrid, and some time cuddling on the couch with Ginny. After that, he went down for dinner, and spent the meal talking with Terry Boot about the battle they had learned about in Defence. Malfoy and Nott even chimed in occasionally- Malfoy was in the class, and Nott apparently wanted to be a historian after school, and so knew about the Battle of 192.

After that, it was back up to the dorm for more cuddling with Ginny and some extracurricular Defence reading. Then he went to bed, which was when the day stopped being normal:

"Hello, Master," a small voice hisses from under his covers. Harry yelps and leaps away, falling out of bed and onto his rear. A black and tan head pokes out from under the covers. Harry sighs with relief; it is only a common viper. (His thoughts take a jump back and think about that thought- _only_ a viper. He really has been in too many life threatening situations.)

"Hello, snake," he hisses quietly. "What are you doing in my bed?"

The snake slithers the rest of the way out from under the covers. It is a little less than two feet long, and has tan scales with black diamonds along its back. "It was warm," the snake told him. "And you are warm in the other heat. May I stay with you, Master?"

The snake flicks out its tongue at Harry, tickling his cheek. He laughs. "I'm not your master, snake. How have you gotten here? And what do you mean, 'the other heat'?"

"I don't know what you call the other heat; all of the humans here have it. I lost the human child who feeds me, and I followed your warmth here. You are the warmest one." The snake slides down from the bed and into Harry's lap. "I enjoy your warmth," the snake tells him happily.

"Is your owner- sorry; is 'the child who feeds you' in the castle?" Harry asks. Fascinated by the creature's sleek scales, he begins to stroke it.

The snake hisses in pleasure. "Yes, my human child is here. She lives in the warm place among the deep dark damp place." It squirms with glee from the petting, and Harry has to push it a bit farther away from his stomach to keep it from rubbing awkward places.

"And- will you _stop_ that?- and what is your human child's name?"

"Matilda. She calls me Matthew," the snake replies.

Malfoy steps into the room just then. Harry smiles and gathers the snake into his arms. "Malfoy," he calls. It comes out in a hiss, so he tries again. "Malfoy!"

Malfoy looks around as if to find the source of the sound. After a moment he sees Harry's head peeking above the top of the bed. "Potter? What are you _doing_?"

Harry manages to stand after a moment, despite being thrown off balance by the snake. "I've found a lost pet. He says he belongs to a Slytherin girl named Matilda. Will you show me the way to the Slytherin dormitories?"

Malfoy doesn't answer, choosing instead to gape at the viper in Harry's arms.

Harry carefully sets the snake on the bed so he can pull his robe on over his pyjamas. "I kind of remember the way, but I've only been there the once and I'm not really sure, and I don't know the password anyway, and I really want to get Matthew back to his owner… Um, Malfoy?"

Malfoy is still staring at him as if he's just declared himself the Prince of Vampire Bunnies. "I am speaking in English, right?" he asks awkwardly.

"Potter, I swear to Merlin, you are the only person I know who can go to bed and find a lost and forlorn _adder_ to rescue," Malfoy sighs. "Come on, then. And what do you _mean_, 'you've only been to the Slytherin dorm once'? When were you in our common room?" he adds, in a tone of supreme outrage.

And so begins the treacherous journey to the dark dungeons and the Slytherin common room…


	9. Chapter Nine

AN: There is a section of this chapter that is in Kingsley's point of view. Pay careful attention to the types of words he uses to describe Harry; it may give you a hint as to what one of their romantic problems will be in the future (the distant future, unfortunately).

Chapter Nine: To the Dungeons

"Second year; Hermione brewed Polyjuice potion, and Ron and I pretended to be Crabbe and Goyle," Harry says impishly, his green eyes lighting up with amusement when Malfoy gawks at him (again).

"Polyjuice potion in second year?" he asks disbelievingly. "That's ridiculous. Polyjuice is a NEWT-level potion!"

"Yes, it is," Harry answers calmly, making a good attempt at a straight face as he steps into the common room.

"But- but-" Malfoy reaches up and runs a frustrated hand through his hair, thoroughly mussing it- which, for Malfoy, means he's _very_ frustrated. "If you don't want to tell me then just say so!" he snaps.

A deep, adult voice interrupts their conversation. "Harry? Why are you carrying a snake?" Kingsley asks cautiously. Harry turns and can't help the grin that spreads across his face in response to Kingsley's slightly bemused smile.

"He got lost and we're returning him to his owner," Harry explains. A sudden thought occurs to him, and he looks down at the snake in his arms. "Matthew? You are a boy, right? Since you're called Matthew," he hisses. The hairs on the back of his neck lift as every eye in the room is turned on him, and he belatedly realizes that no one here has heard him speak parseltongue since second year.

"Yes and no," Matthew replies mysteriously. "However, you may think of me as a male if it so suits you. Caress me again, warm one," it adds in a bossy tone.

Harry obeys as well as he can with full arms. His attempts at petting aren't helped by the fact that the diamond-patterned viper keeps shifting and squirming in his arms. "Yes and no?" He absently notes the feeling of dozens of eyes digging into him, but ignores it. If anyone is prejudiced against parselmouths then they'll just have to deal with it... right?

"I am externally male but I may bear children if I so wish," Matthew clarifies.

Harry frowns in slight confusion, but decides to just accept it. He turns his attention back to the humans in the common room- at least, as much as he can while simultaneously trying to keep hold of a writhing serpent. Sure enough, they are all staring at him as if he has gone completely batty. "Want to come with?" he asks Kingsley, returning to their previous conversation- returning the snake to its owner. He's aware of a slight note of challenge in his voice, although he doesn't know why it's there.

"Sure," Kingsley agrees nonchalantly, seeming not to hear the challenge. Harry is oddly relieved. "I've always wanted to see the Slytherin common room. Can I pet the snake without being bitten, do you think?" he asks suddenly, switching the subject without so much as a pause.

Harry asks Matthew, who lets out a string of enthusiastic hisses. Harry laughs and nods at Kingsley. Kingsley reaches out and strokes Matthew gently, and Harry recalls, with a touch of surprise, that Kingsley hadn't known he's a parselmouth until just now. He smiles; that must have been why he was nervous, even if he hadn't known it. "He likes that very much," he offers tentatively, and Kingsley grins at him.

Malfoy coughs. "Can we get back to the point?" he demands. "I want to go to bed sometime tonight, if you don't mind."

XXXXXXX

Kingsley smiles down at the small youth beside him and withdraws his hand from the two-foot-long snake, which looks even larger against Harry's thin arms. Harry smiles shyly back at him, and Kingsley is glad that his gesture of goodwill has worked. The guarded look in Harry's eyes a few moments ago had given him the feeling that any misstep, no matter how tiny, would shatter the friendship the two have begun to form. It's lucky that he has had prior experience with some of the more sensitive Slytherins, or he would have revealed his shock at the boy's ability. From those prior experiences and the pleased way Harry is currently looking at him, he knows that that particular mistake- to reveal his true feelings about this new gift- would have hurt Harry terribly, if unintentionally.

He follows the impatient Malfoy child towards the dungeons- even if he hasn't actually seen the inside of the Slytherin common room, he knows where it is. Harry walks next to him, cuddling the snake in his arms and hissing at it. "What's its name?" Kingsley questions him.

"His name- or her name, I suppose- is Matthew," Harry answers, distracted momentarily from his hissed discussion.

"You don't know which it is?" Kingsley asks. It's the only question he can think of and a pitiful attempt at conversation, but he's desperate to get Harry to speak English in order to prevent those inhuman noises from pouring out of the child's mouth. It's no wonder, really, that parseltongue is considered a mark of a dark wizard; it sounds like some kind of demon language.

"He says that he's a boy on the outside but can get pregnant," Harry answers. He wrinkles his nose in an adorably confused expression (at least, adorable in Kingsley's opinion). "I have no idea what that's supposed to mean, but he says we can use boy words for him if we want."

"Ah, so it's a hermaphroditic snake, then," Kingsley says, raising an eyebrow. Harry _would _find a hermaphroditic snake. Kingsley hadn't even known that was _possible_, but obviously if something is at all possible, no matter how improbable, Harry will eventually discover it.

"A what?" Harry asks. He makes that adorable confused face again, and Kingsley chuckles.

"A hermaphrodite; haven't you heard that word before?"

"No," Harry says. "Should I have?" Kingsley mentally laughs, but keeps his face blank; Merlin, the kid is so bloody _innocent_. How is it that the child can have lived through a war, seen death and destruction and torture, and still be so sheltered in some ways? Harry seems to pick up on Kingsley's amusement, blank face or no, and he scowls.

"Call it another thing for Hermione's list," Kingsley teases gently, and Harry relaxes again. "A hermaphrodite is just a word for someone who has both genders."

"Oh," says Harry. He looks down and hisses something at the snake, probably passing along the information. The sound echoes eerily in the long hallway.

"Legend says that the word comes from the son of Hermes and Aphrodite," Kingsley adds hurriedly, and Harry stops hissing to listen to him. "He was called Hermaphroditus, and was an extremely beautiful youth. One day he went to bathe in a pool, but the pool belonged to a water nymph named Salmacis. She made advances toward him, but he was virginal and refused her. Yet the water of the pool was beautiful and clear; so when she promised to avert her eyes while he bathed, he decided to bathe in the water anyway.

"Salmacis then came to him and embraced him. He tried to fight her off, but she prayed to the gods for them to never be parted. The gods answered her payer, and they became one person, part male and part female. Hermaphroditus, angry and bitter, prayed for everyone who entered the pool in the future to become like him, half and half, and the gods granted him this.

"Ever after, all who bathed in that pool became a hermaphrodite, and so also did many of their descendants," Kingsley finishes.

Harry blinks at him, obviously surprised by the random story-time. "Oh," he says, and Kingsley feels a bit embarrassed- why did he do that, anyway? What teenager is interested in ancient legends? "Cool," Harry says, breaking into a grin. "Do people really think that happened?"

"Some people do," Kingsley says, pleased that Harry is unexpectedly interested. "The pool actually does exist, in a magical area of Greece, near Caria."

"Really?" Harry asks, wide-eyed. "Does it really change people like in the story?"

"Yes, although it's pretty rare that anyone bathes in it, as you can imagine."

Harry laughs. Malfoy turns to face them, walking backwards for a minute. "My great-great-great-great-great uncle fell into Hermaphroditus' pool when he was in Greece," he announces. "They managed to turn him back, though," he adds, almost regretfully. Harry's eyes get even wider, and Malfoy spins back around to walk properly, looking extremely pleased with himself.

Harry turned back to his conversation with the serpent, excitedly babbling away about something. Kingsley braces himself to deal with it for a few minutes, because they are almost at the Slytherin dormitory.

XXXXXXXXXX

"Viper," Malfoy declares. He is standing in front of a blank wall, facing it, his hair and skin appearing even lighter than usual against the dark stone of the dungeons. The door slides open, and he steps inside with another backwards smirk at them. Harry wonders what he's so pleased about. The way he's showing off so much, it's almost like he wants to impress Harry-

Yeah, right.

"Melinda!" Malfoy calls. "Or Matilda or Melissa, whatever your name is- the one with the snake- come here!" he orders imperiously.

Harry snickers, and Malfoy turns red and flashes a scowl at Harry over his shoulder. Harry steps forward, and takes his second look around the Slytherin common room. It has a low ceiling, and is dark and very green. There are skulls and snakes _everywhere._ In short, in looks exactly the way he remembers it.

On the other hand, there are several large fireplaces, many lamps, soft armchairs, and a thick carpet. When he was twelve, those things hadn't meant much to him, but a year in a tent changed the way he looks at rooms. This particular room looks comfortable and warm.

It still has too many skull decorations, though. Honestly, what kind of person embroiders skulls on throw pillows? "We're looking for Matilda," Harry tells the startled students. "I've found a snake named Matthew, and he claims to belong to her..."

One student runs off through a small wooden door, calling excitedly for Matilda. "Matilda! It's _Harry Potter_, and he's brought Matthew back!"

A moment later, Matilda- a third year with blond ringlets- is pulling the snake out of Harry's arms and cuddling him in her own, cooing and scolding it. "To where did you run off, you naughty creature? I was worried about you, Mattie! You could have been eaten by an owl or one of Professor Hagrid's pets!"

"Ah, see? This is how you properly stroke a viper! Pay close attention, Other Master," Matthew orders haughtily. Harry laughs.

The sound attracts Matilda's attention, and she beams at him. "Thank you so much, Mr. Potter!" she says, dropping a curtsy that is somehow elegant despite the fact that she is precariously balancing a moving serpent in one arm. Her eyes sparkle as she looks at him- grey eyes, just like Sirius'. She's the girl who had the toys sent from home that morning.

"It's just Harry," Harry tells her, tilting his head forward slightly in recognition of her curtsy. Eventually he must learn to bow without making a fool of himself, he decides. He hasn't looked away from her eyes yet, those eyes so much like Sirius' eyes.

"Well," Malfoy says, sounding bored already, "we've returned the Serpent in Distress. Can we go?" Of course, one can't blame him. He has lived in these rooms for over a third of his life, so there can't be much here to interest him anymore.

"Yeah," Harry agrees reluctantly. "See you, Matilda," He tilts his head again. "See you, Matthew," he hisses.

"Good night, Master."

They leave, and the wall twists shut behind them.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

That night, Harry dreams of falling. He dreams of glass shattering against hard harsh stone. He dreams of hands stiff and cold and fragile. He dreams of the slightest brush sending it all down, down, down to _break_ with merely the chime of broken glass, only a sound like bells to herald the collapse of his whole world with a touch.

He wakes up. The next morning, when the others find him curled under the bed, Malfoy only raises an eyebrow. Harry is grateful for the other boy's reticence, but distrusts it.

It isn't a very good start to the day.


	10. Chapter Ten

AN: I've been meaning to ask; I have a list of the eighth years, the timetable for all years, and the schedules for the seventh and eighth years. I was considering putting them up online somewhere, but didn't know if anyone would be at all interested. Should I bother?

Chapter Ten: Strange Occurrences

That morning, Harry's hands hurt. He tries flexing them to ease the slight pain, but they are stiff and stubborn. He does his best to ignore it and work through his morning routine. The continuing movement seems to help a little, because his hands slowly become more cooperative and the tips of his fingers start to tingle. He decides that he must have slept in a bad position and put his hands to sleep. By the time he heads off to Theory, he can move his hands easily enough, but the prickling sensation has increased dramatically.

At Theory, he is presented with a dilemma. He decided, after the incident with Professor Sprout, not to show the headmaster's note to any of his teachers unless they're doing a practical. However, Professor Alyssum will surely be very interested in the spells on him, especially since he suspects that they relate to his high number of magical accidents. Should he break his rule and show her the note, or should he keep on doing as he has been and deal with her wrath later?

While his classmates settle into their seats, the green-eyed teen shifts from foot to foot indecisively. The teacher isn't there yet. Should he sit down, or wait? Give it to her or not? He brings his hand up and runs it nervously through his hair, making it messier than ever.

"Harry?" Hermione asks worriedly, frowning up at him from a nearby seat. Her hair seems especially bushy today but is held back by a blue and bronze headband. Harry finds himself admiring the way the Ravenclaw colours set off her brown eyes. "Are you alright? You seem…" she trails off, at a loss for words.

"I'm fine," Harry replies automatically. Hermione rolls her eyes and opens her mouth to scold him (they've had numerous debates over the fact that Harry's 'fine' is often everyone else's 'not dead yet'). "I like the blue and bronze on you," he says quickly. Hermione closes her mouth, surprised. "It makes your eyes look browner."

"Well, thank you, Harry," Hermione says, looking very pleased and a bit pink in the cheeks. "That's a very nice thing to say."

_Note to self: complimenting Hermione distracts her; must use this method more often in the future._

Professor Alyssum enters the room at that moment. Her gray hair is unusually untidy, with many strands hanging loose from her braid. "I'm sorry for being late," she apologizes breathlessly. "I was working on a new spell and accidentally opened a Void in my rooms- please don't ever try to do that, it's exceedingly unpleasant." She settles in at her desk with a tired sigh. "Will you all please bring your accidental magic essays to my desk?"

The students do so. Harry comes to the front of the room as well, making Alyssum raise her eyebrows. "You finished your assignment last class, Mr. Potter," she reminds him.

"Um, yeah, but-" Harry catches himself stuttering, stops, and hands her the note. "I'm supposed to have all my teachers read this," he says simply. Now that he has given her the note, he is calm. The decision is made, and he doesn't need to fret about it any longer. He waits, watching her face for signs of emotion.

First she is surprised: her blue eyes go wide and her eyebrows lift very high. Then she is amused and curious: her expression reminds Harry vividly of Hermione's face when she's just been given a puzzle. Finally she looks up at him, her eyes bright with interest. "When were these spells put on you, Mr. Potter, if you don't mind me asking?"

"A very long time ago, but more have been added since the first one," he answers. "The most recent one has been taken off now," he adds, and she beams at him.

"Has it really? Oh, fascinating! Have you had any accidents since- oh, of course, the candles in the Great Hall! Wonderful, wonderful. Any other side effects? How have your spells been?" Her eyes twinkle happily, and she's speaking so quickly that he can barely understand her.

He fights the urge to laugh and stand calling her Hermione the Elder. "I've only had that one thing in the Great Hall, but I haven't tried casting any spells yet. All of my classes have been theory."

"Ooh! Oh please, cast something- um, levitate my quill!" She grabs said quill and hands it to him. She watches him excitedly and bounces in her seat.

That's the last straw for his straight face, and he laughs, taking the quill from her and setting it on an unoccupied desk. "Wingardium leviosa!" he incants. It would be just my luck, he thinks, for nothing to happen; to discover that the removal of the spell has destroyed my ability to use magic and that I'll have to relearn everything.

This thought hadn't occurred to him before, so he experiences a moment of complete, blinding panic. The edges of his vision go in as if someone has squeezed them.

The feather flies into the air until it hits the ceiling. So does the desk. Woods chips ricochet off the walls and students scream in surprise. "Oops?" Harry says.

Alyssum stares at him in blank shock for a very long moment, and then she falls off her seat laughing. "Lovely!" she says, when she can speak again. "Perfectly wonderful! Yes, this definitely explains your accidental magic, I think. Has anyone mentioned spell weakening to you? I mean, did they say that the spells on you have been getting cracks in them?"

"Yes," Harry says faintly, trying to ignore the fact that he's just blown up a desk.

"Good, good. That seems to be what's going on here. Lovely! Oh, this is so exciting. Would you be able to come down here after dinner? I could teach you some power control exercises…" she wheedles.

Harry nods.

"Good! Go to your seat, then, and we'll get started on class. Today we're going to talk about goblin magic. Does anyone know anything about goblin magic?" She directs this last to the class while Harry takes a seat.

XXXXXXXXX

Harry's next class is Transfigurations. They spend most of the class discussing the chapters they have reread since the last class. They are given three more chapters to review over the weekend. An hour into the class, they move on to practical review. "Take out your wands, class," Professor McGonagall instructs them. Her hair and clothes are perfectly neat, as usual. Not a single hair has escaped her tight bun. It seems strange after their class with Alyssum that morning.

Harry takes the note out of his bag instead of his wand and waits for Professor McGonagall to notice that he hasn't followed her orders.

The world tilts sideways without warning. It doesn't do it in the way that the world spins after one has been part of a long spinning contest, when the world looks like it's tipping. Instead it feels like some indefinable part of him, perhaps his mind or soul, draws slightly inward, twists sideways, and then holds very still for a long moment. He grabs the sides of his desk and holds on as tightly as he can, feeling like he's about to fall apart.

"Mr. Potter? Are you well?" someone asks. He thinks that it's McGonagall, but his gaze is turned to the desk and he can't gather the energy to look up. He needs all of his concentration just to hold himself together.

"Merlin, he's pale as a ghost," someone else remarks anxiously.

"Do you think he's going to pass out?" a girl tremulously asks.

"Harry, are you alright?"

I'm fine, he wants to say, but he can't quite manage it. It isn't his mind that's strange, and he knows exactly what's happening- or he would, if there weren't so many people talking at once. The problem is his body, which won't cooperate.

"We've got to get him somewhere he can lie down," a boy suggests.

"Harry, can you hear me?"

"What's wrong with him?"

"Look at his hair-"

"He could be dying and you're worried about his hair?"

"No, it's standing up, look; like static," a boy points out.

Harry wouldn't be surprised if it was. He feels like the thing inside of him that twisted is struggling to get out, fighting against intangible bonds. All over him itches and tingles, somewhere between goose-bumps and the prickle of fear; both of which make hair stand up.

Something touches his arm. "Ow!" a girl exclaims, and the touch goes away. "He shocked me!"

It's possible to fill a glass past the brim; only by a tiny bit, but it's possible. The water clings to itself and won't fall out. It's like there's a thin skin covering it and holding the water in. If someone touches the water, though, even gently, that 'skin' will break, and the excess water comes pouring out through the gap.

This happens now, with Harry as the glass and the thing inside him as the water. The force inside him pours out of him, unstoppable and relentless. It doesn't hurt. In fact, it feels wonderful, like falling asleep after a long day. He can feel it brushing across his skin like the softest of breaths. Strangely, it doesn't seem to be affecting anything around him; his clothes and hair are motionless, despite the breeze running over his skin.

He still can't find the strength to move.

"It stopped now," the boy declares, relief colouring his voice. "He still looks like he's about to faint, though."

Harry, with a great exercise of willpower, manages to move his eyes enough to see his hands. They look entirely normal, if a bit white from clutching the desk.

The thing moving across his skin stills and slides back under his skin. There are no visible signs, and no strange feelings in him but a momentary sensation of warmth. Somehow, though, this is too much, and he falls into unconsciousness.

XXXXXXXX

Outside, this is what happened:

Harry grew very pale and still, so McGonagall asked him if he was well. When he didn't respond, everyone gathered around and panicked (as crowds will do). His hair lifted slightly from his head, as if struck by static electricity. Hannah Abbott touched his arm, trying to get his attention. She felt a slight shock and let go; his hair went back to normal. Then he fainted.

That is all.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven: Roots, Night Walk and Alyssum

Harry dreams.

"_There now, Duddikins, you see?" Aunt Petunia croons, her words meant as much for the potted tulip before her as for Dudley. A beam of sunlight from the window makes a halo around her bent head. "All it needs to grow big are a little water, sunlight, love and strong roots." _

"_Okay, Mummy," Dudley says, his attention mostly on the television set. _

_Petunia sees this and sighs. She did so hope that her baby would like gardening, but it wasn't to be. "How would you like some cookies now, Angel?" _

"_Okay, Mummy." As soon as she goes into the kitchen, Dudley pushes the plant off of the table with a broad sweep of his arm. It crashes to the floor, dirt and pottery flying all directions in clumps and shards. _

_Petunia comes running at the sound. "Dudley! What happened?" she shrieks, her hands flying to her face at the mess._

_Dudley doesn't look away from the television. "I dunno. It fell on its own," he says. He is unusually cunning for a four-year-old._

_Any other mother would have put her hands on her hips and said, 'Oh really, and how did it do that?' in a disbelieving tone. Petunia's eyes flash to the cupboard and see two green eyes peering out at her from the crack. They widen in surprise, and then the door shuts with a click. "Jealous," she hisses, and she goes to fetch a broom._

_The child in the cupboard sits and thinks. He has always been much smaller than Dudley. If he were big, he could fight back. Harry immediately puts one and one together to make three: he just needs water, light, love and roots to get tall. He can't do anything about sleeping in a dark cupboard or eating too little food, nor about getting love, which leaves roots._

_The next morning, Aunt Petunia finds him out in the backyard. His toes are two feet long, each digging into the ground like a snake, stretched out unnaturally, with tiny joints like the knobs on a tree root. She screams for a long time._

_That night, Petunia talks to Vernon in the living room. "We have to do something," she declares. "We can't go on like this! I don't care what it takes, Vernon, I want it to __**stop**__."_

_After that, Harry made his roots invisible, out of his feelings and hopes and dreams- and, mostly, that other, intangible thing which he sometimes, secretly, brought out and held closely like love. He kept his roots for almost a year, until the bad thing came and stole-_

Harry wakes up in a familiar room and smiles. The hospital wing is dark, lit only by the full moon outside. He thinks about grass, trees, full moons and fresh air, and he wishes desperately to go outside.

Deep in the rock he can feel roots, twining through the castle like serpents.

He sits and slides out of the bed with barely a rustle of fabric. The stone is cold against his bare feet, but he walks to the door anyway. Behind him, an alarm goes off, shrill and frantic. "Shh!" he hisses at it, and it goes still.

The halls are quiet and empty. He slips through the castle like a ghost, hiding easily in the shadows when he comes across the always-vigilant teachers. It is only a few minutes before he steps out of the front door, his roots clinging happily to the soft earth. He stops only a few steps from the doorway, breathing the cool air deeply. He has never known such contentment as this.

The door opens behind him.

XXXXXXXXXX

Kingsley steps out of the front door warily, wand held before him, the wards ringing in his ears. Someone has been tapping into Hogwarts' magic and setting it off, and now the alarms are telling him that someone is on the front lawn.

The light from his wand outlines a small figure and reflects off of its eyes, making them seem to glow. "Harry?" Kingsley exclaims, relaxing slightly- but only slightly. Harry Potter is supposed to be in the hospital wing.

"Hi," says the boy who may or may not be Harry Potter. "Isn't it nice out?"

Kingsley grips his wand a bit tighter. "Why aren't you in the hospital wing?" he asks, as casually as he can manage. His voice is a bit tight nonetheless.

"Oh, I just felt like going for a walk. The moon was so bright, and the night was so full..." he trails off and smiles a smile that is full of teeth. "Yes, I'm Harry," he adds. "If you need proof, then I told you not to tell Hermione that I didn't know boys could date boys, because she'd put it on a list in her head."

Something about Harry's attitude and speech is bothering Kingsley, something that's... strange. Did whatever happened earlier damage his mind? "Don't you mean that the other way around?" he asks, grabbing onto the first concrete strangeness he can isolate. That the night is bright and the moon is full?"

"That, too," Harry replies agreeably. "Did you know that people can grow roots?" he asks bafflingly.

Kingsley lowers his wand, hoping to come across as non-threatening. Obviously something is wrong with the child, perhaps a fever. He doesn't want to alarm Harry and potentially cause more damage. "Oh?" he replies. "What sort of roots?"

"Oh, just roots." Harry smiles that strange smile again. "Could you put out the light? I like the moon better."

Kingsley does so. "Don't you think you'd rather be in bed? It's very late." He means to say more, but breaks off as his eyes adjust to the dark and Harry fades back into view.

"No," Harry says. "I like this night."

And, somehow, Kingsley can't find it in himself to see anything Harry does as odd, because shouldn't a creature like this be acting in ways senseless to a human? It's like he has been transported into one of the old, old stories that his mother used to tell him.

Standing there, lit by the moonlight and some other, internal eternal light, Harry looks like some kind of forest god or a fairy king: Pan or the young Dionysus. From deep beneath his skin the glow radiates outward, like sunlight through quartz, candlelight through semi-opaque glass, fireflies through leaves; somehow there and not-there, illuminating his skin but not passing it. His clothes are still dark, and the grass under his feet and the bush beneath his hand are only lit by the moonlight, but for where they are hidden by Harry's shadow.

He looks mythical, impossible, as if he should be unable to exist, or- though existing- fragile, easily broken, evanescent.

Harry turns away, toward the trees. With his face out of sight, he is abruptly returned to normality. Kingsley shakes his head, convinces himself that it was just a trick of the moonlight. "Harry, I really have to insist that you come back to the hospital wing. It could be dangerous out here."

Harry looks back at Kingsley over his shoulder. He studies Kingsley in silence. "Must I really?" he murmurs, as if to himself.

Kingsley holds out his hand in answer, unable to manage speech at the sight of that uncanny visage.

Harry turns, steps closer, and-

_rests his hand in Kingsley's, his hand small and nearly transparent, fragile, like nothing more than glass. Kingsley gently closes his own hand- large, rough and dark- around Harry's small, warm one_

-allows Kingsley to lead him back into the castle. The walk to the hospital wing seems to take hours, their footsteps ringing on the hard stone and echoing down the empty hallways. Finally they arrive, and Kingsley leads Harry into the room and over to one of the beds. Harry sits obediently but doesn't let go of Kingsley's hand.

"Harry, you need to sleep," Kingsley says, and he hopes that Harry doesn't argue. He doesn't think he could refuse the boy anything on this eerie night.

"Yes," Harry agrees. "Would you tell me another one of those stories first, though?" he asks- the eternal request of children being put to bed. Seeing that Kingsley doesn't understand, he adds, "Like the boy in the pool who stopped being a boy."

"Oh, the Magos Ischyros," Kingsley says. Without making a conscious decision to speak, he says, "A long time ago, there was a girl named Europa, daughter of Agenor. Zeus was enamoured of her, but he knew that his wife, Hera, would be wrathful if she caught him with yet another mistress. Therefore he came up with a cunning plan. Turning into and coming to her in the form of a beautiful white bull, he pretended to be very tame and gentle, and convinced her to climb on his back, then swam away into the sea, carrying the girl away to Crete.

"There, she had three sons by Zeus: Minos, Rhadamanthys and Sarpedon. He also gave her three gifts: Talos, the bronze man, to guard her; a javelin which never missed its mark; and a dog, Lalaeps, which always caught its prey. She later married King Asterius of Crete, who adopted her children. Her family never saw her again, though her father sent all of her brothers to search for her. Both her brothers and her children had many adventures, but those are stories for other days."

Harry is still watching him with those unnaturally illuminated eyes. "Stay here," he orders.

Kingsley nods, unable to refuse those eyes, and Harry lays down, content. In moments he is asleep, and the shimmer of light under his skin fades to darkness. With great relief, Kingsley discovers that he can leave, and he goes to tell Madam Pomfrey of her charge's wanderings.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the morning, Harry wakes alone, the long ward echoing with its emptiness. He fumbles for his glasses on the nightstand without looking- Madam Pomfrey always puts them in the same place- and puts them on as he sits up. The sky outside the row of windows is unusually blue and cloudless. He smiles; wiggles his roots, deep in the earth, and his toes, hidden under the sheets; and thinks about the night before. It was good of Kingsley not to lecture him- perhaps the man understood the lure of outside and full moons.

He wants to leave the stuffy hospital wing, with its blank walls and antiseptic smells. He sees no reason not to, and it's the work of a moment to grab his bag and head for the door. Unfortunately, Madam Pomfrey comes out of her office at that very moment. She eyes him disapprovingly. "And to where are you off, young man?"

"Class," he says, smiling disarmingly at her.

"Without your shoes?" She raises her eyebrows. "I think not. Come here and sit down while I check you over," she commands. He obeys her, but perches barely on the edge of the bed, and he sends longing glances at the door. "You won't be leaving for at least a few hours yet, Mr. Potter, so don't fidget like that."

He sighs and droops. "But I want to go outside where there's air."

She turns away for a moment, fiddling with some kind of tool on a small table, and answers with her back turned. "There's air in here." Her voice is carefully unchallenging and calm.

"But not good air; it's all trapped and terrible," Harry explains, flushing. Of course there's _air_; why had he said it that way? He just didn't have the right words. "I want the earth," he says, "the earth and the wind and the trees, so that I can sink my roots in deep and breathe."

Madam Pomfrey picks a tool off of her tray, turns, and holds it out to him, her face as politely mild as her voice. "Open," she says, and sticks the thermometer into his mouth. At least, it looks like a thermometer. "Is that why you went wandering last night?" she asks, sounding merely curious.

He nods warily, fully expecting to be yelled at in a moment. He mentally curses himself for a fool; how stupid of him, to think that she wouldn't have noticed him leaving. She always did. Still, he can't bring himself to regret it.

"I see," she murmurs, and pulls the thermometer out of his mouth. She frowns at it and makes a notation on a piece of parchment. Harry can't see what she has written. "Roots, you were saying?"

"Yes," Harry says slowly, and decides at the last moment not to say more. He closes his mouth so quickly that his teeth click.

"What kind of roots?"

"Just roots."

"Tell me more." She studies his face, and he finds that he must drop his gaze to the floor.

"No," he says, and tenses with the expectation of her anger.

"Alright," she says calmly. "Your friends brought down you homework; why don't you try to get some of that done?" She leaves without waiting for his response. 'Click-click-click', her shoes say as she walks out. 'Click-click-click, you've hurt me'. Really, though; why would she have expected him to trust her?

He sighs and digs his Transfiguration textbook out of his bag.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey says sharply.

Harry looks up. Her face is pinched, hurt. He gets the feeling that she has called him several times. "Sorry," he says.

"Professor Alyssum is here. Will you speak to her?"

Harry frowns, thinking about the words she chose: to, not with. "I will listen to her," he agrees carefully. There's something almost too careful about it, and he remembers with a start that he's in Slytherin now.

Pomfrey purses her lips. "Hmm," she says, and click-click-clicks away through a small doorway.

Alyssum appears in that same doorway a moment later. "Good morning, Mr. Potter; I trust you slept well?" She crosses the room with quick, long steps, and reaches out her hand to feel Harry's forehead.

He flinches away, not having expected it. "Fine," he replies tightly.

She steps back slightly, sets her hands on her hips, and studies him appraisingly. "I didn't intend to startle you," she tells him apologetically. "Are you feverish? Hot? Cold? Feeling tingles or sparks? Itchy? Tired? Jittery? Did you sleep a lot or a little? Why did you go walking last night? Did anything explode yesterday? Have you tried to cast any spells today?"

He just blinks at her for a moment, overwhelmed by the number of questions. "I feel perfectly normal," he replies honestly- or he intends it honestly, but then he recalls his roots.

She raises an eyebrow. "Really?" she asked, the word coated thoroughly in disbelief. "Madam Pomfrey mentioned roots."

He looks away. "That's normal." Her disbelief doesn't soften; he can feel her gaze on him, waiting. "Or they used to be," he adds grudgingly.

"They used to be?" she prompts. When he doesn't answer immediately, she says, "Did they go away and come back again?"

Harry nods slowly, although he isn't sure why he's telling her this- contrariwise, he isn't sure why he doesn't want to tell her. Maybe it's just that Slytherin secrecy showing up.

"When did they leave?"

This, though, he won't answer.

"Mr. Potter? You know that I'm only asking you these things because I want to help you, right?" Her voice is gentle and cautious, much like Pomfrey's had been earlier. His only response is to clench his teeth tighter.

"Do you know how you came to be here?" she asks, abruptly changing topics- something which he has already witnessed in class on several occasions. It seems to be a habit of hers.

He looks up at her and shakes his head. "I fainted," he says, and can't help the way his lip curls a little in disgust. He thinks of Malfoy in third year- What, did little baby Potty faint because of the scary Dementors?

"Yes," she agrees. "You lost consciousness due to magical overload. Have you heard of that before?"

He doesn't answer, but his bafflement must have shown on his face, because she explains. "I know, you're thinking, 'how can someone get too much magic?' It's like saying someone collapsed because they breathed too much or something like that- well, no, that's actually not a very good metaphor (simile?) because air is very different from magic- sorry, never mind.

"Yes, anyway. Magical overload is when- well, it's just that the human body can't take more than a certain amount of energy. And, for one reason or another, people sometimes enhance their magic or collect magical energy from some sort of magical accidental or- sorry, _for one reason or another _people sometimes have too much energy in their bodies at one time and collapse. Um, I'm afraid that anything more detailed would go over your head right now, although if you decide to continue your studies in theory after school then you'll eventually manage, I'm sure; you seem a very intelligent you man…

"In your case, your recently unleashed magic hit you all at once- remember, it's been separated from the rest of your body for all this time, so your body hasn't had a chance to change and adjust along with the growing power. If it had, this wouldn't have happened; your cells would have mutated to accept it. It's been recorded as happening before; we'll actually be talking about that in class soon, so I'd better not go off on it to you yet, hmm?" She paused, thinking.

"I'm not sure why you collapsed yesterday and not on Monday; if I had to guess, I'd say that your magic simply took that long to adjust and fully escape from its holdings. That is, the magic that was freed took that long to properly build up, and- but that's all guesswork," she concludes, suddenly flustered. "Any questions?"

Harry shakes his head slowly, not really hearing her question. "Wait, yes!" he corrects himself, as the information coalesces in his mind. "If the magic released from just one of the bindings is enough to give me magical overload, what's going to happen when all of it is released?"

"Ah," she says, her expression more grim than he has yet to see it. "Well, that's the problem, isn't it? The Unspeakables should have mentioned to you- did they mention that taking them all off at once would be dangerous?"

Harry nods.

"That's because it would have given you magical overload- enough of a magical overload to kill you. The reason that they're doing it this way is partly because they hope that have the magic released a little at a time will reduce its effects and prevent the mass destruction that seems otherwise inevitable, but it's also because they hope that, by releasing it slowly, your body will have time to adjust to the magic. In other words, they're hoping that small jolts of it at a time will mutate you enough that your body can handle it. And don't look at me like that-" Harry had turned rather white at the word 'mutate', "You should have had that already happen to you, so it isn't so strange. You won't turn into the monster from the black lagoon or anything like that.

"That brings me back to the point. You acted strangely last night, and- if what you've said already is to be believed- you're experiencing strange things today. I'm asking you all of these questions because I want to know what's happening, so that I can help you deal with the changes and so that I can protect you from the worst of the potential damage. You're in great danger from your own magic- not of its own will, mind you, but just because you haven't adjusted yet. I need to help you adjust, because otherwise it will kill you.

"Will you answer my questions, now?"


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Note: Because everyone is asking: **Yes, this is Kingsley/Harry- eventually. It'll take awhile, but it's going to happen. Stop asking about the coupling, please.

Also, I'd like to take a moment to remind everyone not to believe everything you hear. Just because a character seems to be playing Author's Mouthpiece doesn't mean he or she actually is. That being said, though, it's usually best to assume what Seemingly Omniscient Characters say is true unless proven otherwise.

CHAPTER TWELVE: Answers, Ginny and Toys

"Will you answer my questions now?"

Harry nods. "Yes, I guess." He pauses, trying to sort out his thoughts. His eyelids lower as he concentrates. "I don't think the roots even are real. And I only went outside because I wanted to be outdoors. It seemed so nice out there…" He trails off, feeling useless. "And I really do feel normal now." He opens his eyes fully to look at her.

She had been looking at him, but she turns away from his gaze. "I see. That's not very helpful, then, is it?" Her blue eyes lose some of their excited twinkle. Uncertainly, she requests, "Would you tell me about the roots anyway? Even if they're not real?"

He looks away, embarrassed for reasons he can't entirely explain. "They're just roots. I make them out of…" he pauses, tries to think of the word. "Out of magic, maybe. Or I pretend to. And they go into the ground and… help. To ground me, I mean. So that I don't feel like I'm falling apart."

She appears thoughtful, considering. "Yes, that makes sense." She smiles at him. "Sometimes very strong wizards ground their power in the earth, like a house's foundations- or, no, that's a terrible allegory (metaphor?). The point is that sometimes wizards have too much power, and they need to tie it into the earth to give them more control and to let some of the magic loose safely. Do you think your roots are like that?"

Harry frowns, trying to understand what she is saying and to fit his own situation into it. "Maybe," he says finally, concentrating on the feel of the roots. Is he sending power out through them? He absently traces a pattern on the ground with his bare foot. Beneath the floor, his roots dance about, as if he had taken the end of a long piece of string and twitched it. It makes him grin, and he scuffs his foot swiftly across the floor, making the roots twist about like plants in the wind.

"Is there anything else that's odd?" Alyssum asks, watching him thoughtfully. "You seem distracted."

Harry looks up from tracing patterns, surprised. He had almost forgotten she was there. It takes his mind a moment to catch up with her words, and then he shakes his head. "Only that I really would like to go outside," he replies. "I can't breathe well in here."

She nods. "That makes sense," she tells him, but doesn't explain why. "Overall you're doing well, then." She contemplates something, and then nods to herself decisively. "Are you in Herbology?"

Harry nods.

"It's just gone twelve-thirty now, I think. There's about two hours until your year has Herbology. Why don't you go up to your dorm and get some clean clothes, and then go outside? I'll have the house-elves send you lunch and dinner so that you can stay out until nightfall."

Harry's eyes light up. "Really?" he asks, grinning. "I can stay outside all day?"

She nods, smiling back. Then her face turns stern. "But _only_ until nightfall, Mr. Potter. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replies, and jumps up to leave. "So I can go now?" he asks impatiently.

"One moment," she requests. He waits, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Do you have any classes tomorrow? That's Friday."

He shakes his head and shoots a look at the door.

"Then we'll arrange for you to take your meals outdoors tomorrow, as well, if you still want to be outside."

"Great!" he exclaims, and looks at the doorway again. "Can I go?"

She smiles indulgently and waves her hand towards the door. "Go on," she says.

He's gone almost before the words have left her mouth.

XXXXXXXX

"Harry?"

Harry rolls over to look at Ginny. They are sprawled together at the side of the lake, doing nothing in particular in the period between class and dinner. The sun shines warm on their backs, the trees and plants rustle in a slight breeze, and there is clean air to breathe. Harry picks long pieces of grass and braids them together for no reason other than to occupy his hands. It's a rare moment of contentment amid the chaos that fills his life. "Yeah?"

Ginny is looking at him quietly, a slight smile on her face. "What were you like as a kid?" she asks. "I mean, when you were really little, like four or five."

Harry frowns a bit, but is too relaxed to really mind. "Why?" he asks, and flops back onto his stomach.

"I don't know. It's just... you know so much about how I was, you know? And I don't know anything about what you were like."

He peers at her from beneath his bangs. She's blushing slightly, and her eyes are too intent for the innocent question, but there doesn't seem to be any harm in answering. "I was pretty terrible, actually," he replies, trying and failing to sounding casual.

Her gaze sharpens. "Oh?"

Suddenly awkward, he looks back down at his grass braid so that he doesn't have to meet her eyes. But that's ridiculous; he doesn't have anything to be embarrassed about, does he? It's just that he doesn't like being _looked at_ like that. "One of the neighbours used to say that I was like a deer in human skin," he begins, and smiles to think of that neighbour. He had always been kind to Harry, in his own, odd way. He was bit too infatuated with his own eloquence, but that was forgivable.

"I couldn't stand to be indoors for more than a few hours at the time. In warm weather, I'd hide when my aunt called me in to bed, then sleep in whatever hide-away I was using that week." He stops to glance at Ginny. She has an eyebrow raised, but otherwise shows no reaction. In an attempt to distract himself from her gaze, he begins to list off random pieces of information. "I wouldn't wear shoes, I threw a temper-tantrum when I had to take a bath or have my hair brushed, and I'd fight like a little devil against having my hair cut. I refused to use silverware, I more often ate things like clover and berries than what my aunt called 'proper food', and-" He breaks off. That was more than he really meant to say.

Ginny can't seem to choose between laughing, gaping at him in horror, and getting mad at him for teasing. "You did not!" she protests, a little giggle breaking loose with the pronouncement. "Really, Harry, even the twins weren't that bad." A shadow appears in her eyes at the thought of Fred, but it disappears as quickly as a cloud crossing the sun.

"Well, I was," Harry declares. "I told you I was terrible. My aunt called me a little savage."

At that, she gives in and starts to laugh. "How on earth did your aunt manage?" she asks.

"She didn't, really," Harry says thoughtfully, "at least not in warm weather. There wasn't much she _could_ do. She teamed up against me with the neighbours; whenever one of them saw me, they'd chase after me and try to catch me." Harry stops for a moment to enjoy Ginny's laughter. "When they managed, they'd carry me home, where I'd be forced to bathe and brush my teeth and all of that other horrible stuff. But I'd sneak off again as soon as I could.

"Which really wasn't a good plan, actually," he adds quietly, and Ginny stops giggling at the change in tone. "I was already skittish around people, and the chasing made me far worse. I'd take off like a shot if I thought someone had seen me; I really was a little like a deer, I guess."

Ginny smiles at him again, and the sunlight highlights her hair in gold. "That's fitting, since your father was a stag," she says.

"And my mother's Patronus was a doe," Harry tells her, smiling back. "That's true. But still, it wasn't good for me, I don't think." His smile drops away. "I'd spend days at a time without human contact, because I was so afraid of being locked up- that's how I thought of being inside, as being locked up." She doesn't need to know that the locking up was often literal. He grew used to and even came to like the cupboard when he was a little older, but as a young child it had been the stuff of nightmares.

He forces his thoughts on to better topics. "The one who really 'managed' me wasn't my aunt. It was the man I mentioned before- the one who called me a deer? Jonathon. He refused to team up with them to catch me, so I trusted him a little." As much as he'd been capable of trust, back then. "He'd bring out a bowl of food for me- usually honeyed oatmeal, or something like it- and set it on his back stoop. Then he'd call for me: 'Here, kitty, kitty.'" He waits for her laugh, and isn't disappointed.

"He didn't," she exclaims, clapping her hands over her mouth in amused dismay.

Harry nods. "He did," he says, and grins. "I was too young then to get offended, remember; only four or five, maybe six. Anyway, Jonathon would call to me, and I knew he meant me because that's what he always called me: 'Kitty'. So I'd come." At first, he'd hidden in the bushes until Jonathon went inside. Much later, he would come into sight while Jonathon was outside, but not too close. It took months before he'd felt brave enough to come up to the door with the man there. "He had to stay inside for the first little while that I knew him, I was that terrified of being caught." He turns his face away to hide his frown, remembering the fear of capture that had followed him around like a dark shadow. If it weren't for that, he could have even been happy.

"That's terrible," Ginny murmurs, frowning. But she smiles again after a moment. "I did that with a stray cat, once. Feeding it, I mean. Mum said it had probably been… abandoned or abused, to be afraid of people like that." She watches him with a level, piercing gaze.

Harry looks back at his grass braid and pretends he doesn't hear her unspoken question. "I'm really grateful to Jonathon, actually. It's probably only because of Jonathon that I ever learned to get along with people at all. He always used to claim that he was the one to 'domesticate' me; his own house-tiger." It was true, too, in a way. Some things, like sleeping outside, Harry had just outgrown, but Jonathon was the one who had taught young Harry how to behave around "civilized" people.

Jonathon had gotten him to wear shoes and use silverware; had taught him to read; and had, most importantly, taught him to trust. "I bet that cat of yours thought you were brilliant," he tells Ginny to change the subject, and she beams. "What was the cat like?"

As she babbles happily about her stray cat, Harry ties together the ends of his grass braid and sets it on her head like a crown. She smiles, a bit bemused by the action but nonetheless pleased. "Thank you," she says, and goes back to talking about the cat.

It was apparently called Fluffy, which makes Harry imagine a demon-cat with dripping fangs. That is the peril of being friends with Hagrid.

Harry sits and thinks about dark cupboards, and cages; about feeling so hungry that he couldn't think straight, and knowing that he had to choose between freedom and food; about a man who he had loved and hated at the same time.

'I tried to kill him once,' he almost says, but doesn't, because Ginny is Ginny and wouldn't understand.

XXXXXXXXXXX

"Oy! Harry!"

Harry looks up toward the castle. At the top of the slope that leads up to the school stand two figures, one tall and one short; Terry Boot and Matilda the Slytherin. Harry sits up properly and waves to them, and they come trotting down the hill. Terry walks awkwardly, his arms spread wide to hold onto a large box; Matilda has her arms full of a certain snake, but manages to look like as elegant as a fairy princess anyway. He has a sudden but brief image of her as a Muggle; she would always wear evening gowns or something like that, he thinks.

"Hi," he says, standing as they approach.

"Good evening, other master!" Matthew hisses, squirming in Matilda's arms.

"Oh!" she exclaims, as Matthew falls out of her arms from the wriggling.

He seems unperturbed, however, and slithers through the grass to Harry, who picks him up with a laugh. "Hello, Matthew."

Meanwhile, Terry has set the box on the grass and is rubbing at his arms and wincing. "That thing is _heavy_," he complains.

"Of course it is," Matilda says primly, as if she hadn't just lost her grasp on a struggling serpent. Her eyelashes nearly hide her Sirius-like eyes when she looks down her nose at Terry, who has dropped unceremoniously onto the grass. "Just because your mother shrank the toys doesn't mean that they're lighter, you know. You or she should have cast a feather-light charm."

"Pet me!" Matthew orders.

Harry looks at the box with more interest. "Is that the toys you mentioned?" he asks, running one hand along Matthew's scales as best he can.

"Yeah; come over and look." Terry is trying to open the box, and Harry drops to his knees beside him. There are layers and layers of spell-o-tape that don't seem to want to come loose, even with a wand.

Matthew takes the opportunity to slither to the ground and return to Matilda. "Matilda, my love, I have returned! You pet me much better than the warm master!"

Harry snorts. "Thanks a lot, Mathew," he says dryly, glancing at the snake as he speaks to ensure parseltongue.

"What'd he say?" Terry asks, finally getting through the tape. His back is to the sun, and his shadow makes it hard to see into the box.

"That he loves Matilda because she's better at petting him than me," Harry says absently, leaning closer to see into the dimly lit box.

Terry tugs something that resembles a clear, glass marble out and ends the shrinking spell on it. It swiftly grows to its proper size, about as large as Harry's hand. "What is it?" Harry asks.

"A glow globe," Terry says. "You saw Matilda's the other day, remember?" He holds it in both hands and screws his face into a look of concentration. The ball lights up like a rainbow, casting flickering light on his face like a television in a dark room. After a moment of concentration, the rainbow turns mostly blue. Terry sighs. "You're supposed to make it go all one colour by concentrating on the colour you want," he explains, "but I've never been able to make it go more monochromatic than that. You try."

Harry obediently takes the ball from him. "What do I do?" he asks.

"Just think about it being one colour," Matilda says, watching with interest.

He concentrates on the first colour that comes to mind, Avada Kedavra green. That makes him think of his earliest memory, a green light and high-pitched laughter. He zones out for a minute, thinking about all the times he has seen that spell. It's odd that such an evil spell is so beautiful, he thinks.

"Great!" says Terry, grinning.

Harry realizes belatedly that the globe has turned entirely green. It's pretty, although probably a bit morbid. "Oh," Harry says absently. The light is still jumping around like St. Elmo's fire. It reminds him strongly of the way his roots move. He suspects that means something, but has no idea what.

"You would get it on the first try," Terry sighs. "Here, let's try something else. Mum sent a set of toy Aurors and Dark Wizards. You can order them around and make them fight…"

The next hour is spent happily playing with children's toys with Matilda, Matthew and Terry (although Matthew is more interested in being coddled than in playing).

After the others go inside for dinner and Harry has finished eating, he thinks about going inside but doesn't. The temptation to hide from the adults and stay outside all night is strong, but Harry fights it.

He _does not_ hide from Alyssum when the shadows get long and the light turns gold. Nor does he hide when the moon appears and the sun vanishes. Nor does he when the last stragglers vanish into the building, leaving him alone among the roots of a tree.

He doesn't go inside, either, and eventually he falls asleep under the tree.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen: Dreams, Glass, Searching and Promises

"_Kitten, you can't go out in this weather. It's a veritable hurricane!" It is. As the young man speaks, a tree crashes to the ground in the backyard; he jumps and turns pale._

"_I'll find somewhere sheltered." Harry, who is only waist-height on the average-sized man, shrugs it off with an amused smile; he has, after all, been out in worse weather. Besides, better dead than trapped._

"_You're feverish, Harry. What if you get worse in the cold? You'd be out there in the storm, with no help..." He shivers, picturing Harry white and cold and bleeding. "Just stay here tonight; just for the one night!" _

_The smile drops off of the child's face. "No! You promised, Jonathon-" Harry would react to such a suggestion badly on any day; but on this particular evening, he is feverish and out of sorts. His weakness frightens him, and he needs to get somewhere safe and hidden- somewhere away from people! _

"_I'm not forcing you, I'm just-"_

_Sometimes people keep their silence when they're hurt, and they let the pain sit, hidden away, inside of them. Sometimes that anger stays inside forever and never breaks out, turning them bitter and hateful. Other times it breaks out in violence, tears, fighting. This is one of those times. "You always just! You just ask me to wear shoes, to eat the way you want me to, to check in with you regularly, to- to- it's never enough!" Harry screams. _

_Jonathon is taken aback. "Kitten, I- careful!" He reaches out to catch Harry as the ill child stumbles from dizziness. "Why are you doing this? You can't even stand up straight. Please," he begs._

"_No!" Harry replies; something he has never said before to Jonathon. He tries to twist out of the man's grasp._

"_I'm sorry, Kitten, but I can't let you go out in this. It's just one night," he says, and instead of letting go of Harry's arms, he picks the tiny boy up. _

_Harry immediately begins to kick and scream- a scream of pure terror, as if Jonathon were carrying him off to his death. "No! Let me go! Jonathon, no!"_

"_I'll let you leave when the storm ends and your fever goes down, Kitten. It's just one night. I'm sorry." Jonathon's face is honestly pained and regretful; he knows exactly what this action will do to Harry's trust of him. He carefully sets Harry down in the guestroom, nonetheless, and locks the door from the outside. _

_It is when the lock clicks shut that Harry decides to kill Jonathon. He falls asleep dreaming of poison and blades._

He wakes up thinking of breaking glass.

The tree's branches hang over him, dark shadows against the deep purple of the night sky, and its leaves say "clink-clink-clink" like a wind-chime when the night wind knocks them gently into each other. Or perhaps the clinking comes from his fingers, which have gone transparent again, like a ghost coloured in with water-colours.

He shivers as the soft but cold wind stabs its freezing needles into his skin through the too-thin fabric of his warm-weather robe. "Clink, clink," chime his fingers and teeth, as he shifts deeper into the negligible protection of the tree's roots.

Through the trees he can see the glow of the castles windows. The lights are golden, but not in the frozen way that gold is; more like the warm gold of honey or butterbeer. Around him, the night is cold and threatening. He wants to go inside and find- no. He doesn't want the walls. He wants- he wants-

It doesn't matter what he wants, because he can't move for fear of shattering. He curls into a tighter ball and shivers again, but this time it isn't from the cold.

He wonders whether anyone is looking for him.

XXXXX

Kingsley curses as his foot drops into an unseen rabbit-hole and he barely manages to stay upright. Some careful tugging releases his trapped limb, but he's uncomfortably aware that he's likely to trip over a root or some other obstruction in the next few minutes. He has always had poor night-vision, something that is more of a handicap in his profession than it would be in most.

Far across the lawn he can see a figure moving, like a black ant on the hill. The other person, like himself, doesn't have a lantern; no one wants to attract the creatures of the forest to them on a nearly-full moon, and nor are they willing to risk their night-vision (or mostly lack thereof, in Kingsley's case). For the same reasons, they aren't calling out to the lost child (although common sense says that Harry isn't lost, but merely purposefully missing).

Harry James Potter is going to be in a lot of trouble when he's found.

A flash of light in the forest catches his eye. The moon reflecting off glasses, he thinks hopefully. He heads in that direction, but quickly decides that it isn't moonlight on glasses. It's more like fireflies or a pool of water, with light appearing in random flickers through the trees. Curiosity drives him closer, nonetheless.

As he comes closer to the source of the light, he begins to hear a soft tinkling sound, like a shaken chandelier. It is only moments after that that he discovers that 'a shaken chandelier' is surprisingly close to the correct answer.

In front of him stands a full-sized glass tree. The noise comes from the hundreds of glass leaving knocking into each other in the breeze.

So softly that he can hardly hear it under the leaves, someone is singing. "…full of posy, ashes to ashes, we all fall down! Lavender blue, dilly dilly, lavender green, when I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be-"

"Harry?" he whispers. The singing stops.

"Kingsley?" a hesitant voice queries from the darkness.

Kingsley brings his hand to his face and releases a deep sigh of relief. "Oh, thank Merlin. Are you alright? Where are you?" He heads toward the tree, the approximate direction of Harry's voice.

"I'm under the broken-glass tree," he answers quietly. "Or I think it's a broken-glass tree. My head isn't right lately."

'Broken?' Kingsley wonders, but his confusion soon abates. On the other side of the tree, one of the branches has somehow fallen, leaving behind a glistening, jagged stump. Broken glass litters the ground. Harry is nowhere in sight.

"I'm in among the roots," the boy explains in a tiny voice, "and I can't come out."

Soon Kingsley has found the child's hiding-place, in a hollow between two roots. Harry has regained that ghostly transparency and glow from the previous night, but Kingsley finds that he isn't as helpless in the face of the fey magic tonight. This may be largely due to the way the boy shivers in- in fear?

"Shhh," Kingsley croons, "What's wrong, Harry?" He has the strangest urge to pull the child into his arms and hold him until the shaking stops, but that's ridiculous. When did a hug ever do something practical and useful?

Alarmingly bright eyes look up at him, their green turned into something unnatural by the wild magic. "I'll break," Harry whispers, "like the tree did. I can't move or I'll break."

Well. That complicates things. Harry is obviously delusional. "Why will you break, Harry?"

"Glass," Harry mumbles, and his shaking grows so pronounced that Kingsley is momentarily- and ludicrously- afraid that he'll fall apart from the force of it.

"Shhh, it's alright," he says soothingly, and Harry stills a little. "How can I help you? Can you come inside if I carry you?"

"You'll drop me," Harry replies immediately. He somehow manages to curl further into the hole without moving (Kingsley decides that something about Harry makes him think in a completely preposterous manner and that he really has to try to keep a better grasp on common sense. On the other hand, he's sitting under a glass tree and trying to talk the glowing Defeater of the Dark Lord into letting him carry him inside, which really rather destroys the entire ideas of 'logical' and 'illogical'.)

"I won't drop you. I promise."

The otherworldly child seems to consider this. "I don't trust you," he declares finally.

"What can I do to make you trust me?" Kingsley has a feeling that there's nothing that will make Harry trust him. After all, fighting on the same side in a war apparently didn't do it. He feels hurt, which makes him feel selfish, when Harry obviously isn't in his right mind at the moment.

The younger wizard starts to shake his head, but stops. "Would you give something?" he asks, in a very different tone of voice than before.

"What?"

"For my trust," the boy clarifies, in the same distracted way. "Would you give me something for my trust?"

"What kind of something?" Kingsley asks warily. He's thinking again about the old stories, but this time he's remembering the stories without happy endings.

"Only a promise or two," he replies. "Just to not hurt me or bind me, and maybe something else. You want me to give _you _something; isn't it only fair?"

"I promise not to hurt you or bind you," Kingsley says easily, although he isn't sure why Harry would expect him to do either. "What else is it that you want?"

"Another promise: a sacrifice to prove- to prove…" the wizard trails off, apparently losing his train of thought. "I need to know that you mean it," he explains.

"I see," Kingsley says. This is all starting to sound disturbingly familiar.

It has been said that fairy-tales come from stories about the wizards and witches who grew too powerful for a human mind and body. Kingsley is starting to think that whoever said that was right.

"Will you promise to… not to say my name?"

This is absolutely ridiculous, Kingsley decides. He'll just go and fetch the Headmaster, and Nigellus will have Harry inside in no time at all…

Then the child looks up at him with large, hopeful eyes, and he decides that, really, there's no harm in it.

"I promise not to say your name," he agrees. He is rewarded with a beaming smile and an armful of teenage boy.

Within half an hour, Harry has been safely returned to the hospital wing, the searchers have been called back in, Harry is asleep, and Kingsley is wondering what he's gotten himself into.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Look, a chapter! Also, Luna. Also, it is short. And it has been a very long time. Um. Hi again! Look, it lives!

Chapter Fourteen: Luna, and Lectures

The bed is warm and soft. It has a lumpy spot near the foot and on the right, by which Harry knows that it is the third bed from the left in the hospital wing. He opens his eyes, fully expecting to see the funny crack in the ceiling over bed three. A pair of large eyes are three inches from his face.

He shrieks and falls off of the bed.

Madam Pomphrey comes rushing in at the sound, her hair only halfway pinned up. Harry peers at her over the side of the bed sheepishly. "I'm alright, Madam. I just fell out of bed," he tells her.

Luna looks down at him calmly from her perch on the side of the bed. "Good morning," she says cheerfully. "Is it comfortable down there?" She has her hair up in a bun with a bright green Fwooper feather stuck through it.

"Not particularly," Harry replies. "Would you help me up?" After several minutes of struggling, he manages to disentangle himself from the sheets, and Luna pulls him to his feet.

"I like your pyjamas," she tells him, as he sits on the edge of the bed.

He looks down. They're plain, white, hospital pyjamas. "Thank you," he says. "Speaking of my pyjamas, why are you here?" He considers, after he says that, that he might not be fully awake yet. Until the words left his mouth, they seemed like a perfectly logical response to 'I like your pyjamas'.

"Oh, I just wanted to see you. I was starting to rather miss having friends, you see."

Harry's hand stops halfway through grabbing his glasses off the nightstand. He thinks about the last few days. He's seen Luna since the Welcoming Feast, hasn't he?

…oops. He winces, guilty. "Sorry, Luna. Everything's just been so crazy lately…"

"It's alright, Harry. I know what's happening." She leans forward, and whispers secretively, "Your previously-subdued changeling nature has been released, and is turning you into a very tall fairy." She pauses, looking thoughtful. "You probably won't get wings, though. If you do, would you do an article with the Quibbler about it? My father would be ever so pleased."

It's a bit frightening, but that actually sounds almost plausible. "Oh," Harry says. "Well, I'm glad that you understand."

Luna waits patiently for something.

"Oh! And, yeah, I'll think about doing an article with you guys if I grow wings." Once again, Harry finds himself vaguely horrified at what's just come out of his mouth. He searches for a new subject. "How was your summer?"

"Oh, lovely! Daddy and I went to Africa to study the effects of Fwoopers on-"

"Mr. Potter!" Madam Pomphrey exclaims, in the tone of voice one uses when one has attempted to get the attention of someone several times before.

"Sorry," Harry says, blushing. "Yeah?"

"This is not the time to be chatting with friends. You're in very big trouble, young man," Madam Pomphrey snaps, her foot tapping on the floor. Harry winces. He's obviously upset her more than usual this time. "Professor Alyssum wants to speak with you in the headmaster's office about power control; after that, you're going to go speak to the headmaster. More precisely, _he _will be talking to _you_. I'll be surprised if you're not suspended for that trick you pulled yesterday." She sniffs, spins on her heel, and sweeps out of the room, her long robe swirling behind her.

"Will I get to be outside all the time if I'm suspended?" Harry asks. Pomphrey tenses and doesn't bother to answer.

"Have you felt any itching on your back?" Luna asks him, trying to do a handstand on the bed.

"No," Harry says firmly, and decides to do a handstand too. Maybe the world will make more sense upside down.

XXXXXX

"I was pleased to see you working with a Glow Globe yesterday, Harry," Alyssum says. She doesn't look pleased. "However, I do believe that we had agreed that you would come inside at night."

Harry can't quite bring himself to care about her frustration, too busy looking around the headmaster's office. It's... practical. The desk is clear but for ink, quill and parchment. The shelves are filled with books, instead of nick-nacks and strange machines. One shelf has been replaced with a closed cabinet; Harry wonders what's behind the doors.

"Mr. Potter, are you paying attention?"

Harry looks up at the sound of his name, and shakes his head. "Do all the headmaster's change the office?" he asks, curious as ever.

"I wouldn't know," Alyssum retorts, but then she sighs, looking suddenly old and tired. "Why did you stay out when you had agreed to sleep inside, Harry?"

Harry looks at his feet and shrugs, twitching a foot to make his root wiggle. "I didn't mean to," he mumbles. "I just fell asleep. I like sleeping outside," he adds, looking up at her. "I always used to, unless I was-" he stops himself.

_'-unless I was locked up.'_

"Unless you were...?" Alyssum prompts, studying him intently. Her hair is much tidier today, he notes, but the circles under her eyes are much deeper.

"I think you're wrong about the roots," he tells her suddenly, not really thinking about what he's saying. He just wants to change the subject. Now that he's said it, though, it feels true.

"Really?" she asks, intrigued. She leans forward a little in her practical, wooden back seat, and peers into his eyes. "How do they work, then?"

Harry shrugs, then, and looks away. "I don't know," he says. "They're just too wiggly to be grounding me. Why is it good that I was playing with a Glow Globe?"

"They improve your control of magic. What do you mean, 'wiggly'?" She won't be deterred from her current subject of interest.

"I don't know!" Harry snaps. He doesn't know that he's going to rise to his feet and walk to the window until he's done it. His bare feet are silent on the stone floor, muffled by his roots. He reaches up and pushes on the window, which swings open easily at his touch. "I don't know," he repeats, more calmly now that he can feel the air on his face.

"Well, why don't you tell me when you do know," Alyssum says dryly. "In the meantime, I'll just wait around, twiddling my thumbs and hoping you don't die." He hears rustling behind him, shoes on stone, and then finally a door opening. "Keep using the Glow Globe. I'll send up the headmaster."

Harry turns around, startled. "Wait, that's it? Just, 'keep playing with your toys'?" But there is no response, and the door closes on his last word.

XXXXXX

"I can't believe you got away with just a few detentions," Ginny tells Harry brightly, skipping along beside him as they head toward the lake. "Why on earth did you stay out all night, anyway?"

"I was going to come in, but-" Harry begins, but Ginny doesn't seem to hear him.

"Everyone was looking for you, you know. Even the Aurors were out looking in the dark. I thought you might've been eaten by a werewolf or something, only obviously it wouldn't have been an actually werewolf because it wasn't a full moon, that was the night before- oh, and did you hear, Hogsmeade weekend the week after this- are we going together? And-"

Harry rolls his eyes, but smiles and lets his girlfriend chatter away to her heart's content. He absently turns the Glow Globe in his hand the golden-red colour of Ginny's hair, and works on making gold flicker through it in the same way it does in her hair where the light touches it.

The colour reminds him of something else as well, but he can't think what. He changes the Globe to the blue of the lake and thinks no more about it.


End file.
